Silence
by bambers2
Summary: Sam has a dark secret that is twisting and tearing him up inside. But how can Dean ever even hope to help him if Sam refuses to trust in him. A survivor's story.
1. Chapter 1

_So, i posted this story on another site and it was banned, although i cannot see how a survivor's story should be looked at as offensive in any way, shape or form, and so i am posting it here for all those who asked me to continue on with it. A warning for all who read, story deals with sexual abuse...although i will be dealing with it delicately and respectfully. Thanks for reading. let me know what you think as i really live for reviews...bambers;)_

_Silence_

_Chapter One_

At the sound of the front door creaking open and then slamming shut, Dean glanced up from cleaning his .45 and saw Sam throw down his books on the floor and rush toward the bathroom. Dean was on his feet in a shot and headed toward the direction his brother had just disappeared to.

"Sam," Dean pounded on the bathroom door, "where the hell were you after school? Waited around for you for nearly an hour." When Sam failed to respond, Dean banged even harder, the old wooden door rattling with the force he exerted. "Damn it, answer me, Sam. You've been gone for over four freakin' hours an' you have no idea how close I was to callin' Dad."

From inside, Sam leaned his forehead against the door, and pressed shaky hands against the splintering wooden surface. "Ummm . . . j-jus' met a couple friends . . . l-lost track of time." _Damn it, Sam, stop your freakin' stuttering. You're okay . . . nothin' happened. _

_Nothing. Happened._

"You knew I was gonna pick you up from school. You should've waited for me."

_Should've waited . . . why the hell didn't I wait? _Sam raked his fingers through his tangled mess of hair as he tried to reason out why he hadn't just listened to his brother. Stomach lurching, Sam darted for the toilet, threw open the lid and heaved violently. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, dripping into his eyes as he continued to throw up. Slowly his stomach began to settle, and on shaky legs he headed to the shower and turned on the water.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, concern now evident in his voice.

Sam wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then balled his trembling hand into a fist.

"C-can we not talk about this right now, Dean. Gonna take a shower."

"Sammy, let me in." Dean rapped more insistently on the door, but Sam refused to open it.

"Said I was gonna take a shower."

Noticing for the first time that his flannel shirt was on inside out, Sam yanked it off and threw it on the floor, kicking it away from himself. Sam slowly slid off his dirty, faded blue jeans, wincing at the pain the subtle movement caused. Seeing blood on his pants, Sam snatched them up, and then glanced in the direction of the door.

_Shit . . . shit, shit, shit._ _Can't let him see this._ _If he does, he won't let it go._

From the cabinet under the sink, Sam grabbed a bristled cleaning brush, and then carefully climbed into the shower. He snatched the soap off the ledge, brushed it across his jeans a few times and began scrubbing furiously. The water turned a faint rusty color as it dripped off his soddened jeans and made its way down the drain. Sam wrung out the jeans as best as he could and then hung them on the rack just outside of the shower to dry.

Tears stung at Sam's eyes, but he refused to shed them. To let them fall would mean that something had happened. _Nothing happened,_ he repeated over and over again under his breath as he scrubbed the brush over his bruised lower torso. Harder and harder he scrubbed, his skin turning bright red above deeply bruised purple.

_The water's not hot enough. _He turned down the cold lever, and more steam filtered through the already sweltering bathroom. His fingers curled tighter around the brush as he scrubbed his legs and inner thighs. _God, this water's just not hot enough . . . why the hell isn't it hot enough? _Sam turned the cold water off, stood beneath the spray of boiling water, and shivered violently.

_Get a hold of yourself, Sam. You're a freakin' Winchester for Christ sake._

Sam set down the soap and brush, and grabbed the shampoo. Squeezing some into his hand, he brusquely raked his fingers through his hair. Soap dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes, but he scarcely noticed as he rinsed off. Once finished, he poured more soap into his hand and began washing his hair again. When he was done for second time, he stood beneath the water and let the soap run down over his face and body.

He went to turn off the water, but hesitated with his hand on the lever. Sam eyed the bar of soap for a moment then snatched it off the ledge, and scrubbed it over his entire body again. The water slowly cooled as he rinsed off for what seem like at least the fifth time. Although he was certain that he'd missed some part of his lanky frame, he knew he had to get out of the shower.

The second he stepped out of the shower, and grabbed a bath towel off the rack, Sam realized his mistake. He'd been in such a hurry to take a shower, he'd forgotten to get a spare change of clothes. His pants were now soaked so there was no way he could put them back on without Dean questioning it. Frantically, Sam looked around on the ground for his boxers, and it struck him suddenly that he hadn't removed them before he'd gotten into the shower. His mind raced for a plausible explaination as to why he wouldn't be wearing any, and finally settled on the one that seemed to make the most sense.

_I was in a hurry this morning_. _Dean was rushing me, an' I just plain forgot to put them on._

From past experience, Sam knew Dean would be camped right outside the door waiting for him. A torrent of fear and humiliation washed over Sam as he imagined the look of rage on Dean's face if and when he saw the bruises covering Sam's back and torso. Dean wouldn't care if Sam didn't want to talk about it, wanted nothing more than to forget about it, all his brother would see is that someone had hurt Sam and he would be out for blood.

Sam trudged to the door, and called out, "Dean?"

"Yeah, little brother?" Dean answered from right outside the room just as Sam had predicted he would.

"Think you could get me some clean clothes?"

"Is something wrong, Sammy?" Dean tried again, more than just a little concern now tinging his voice. "You can tell me if there is. I swear I won't tell Dad."

"Jus' tired, Dean. Had a bad day." A single tear slipped down Sam's cheek, betraying the brave front he was trying so hard to achieve.

"Wanna talk about it, dude? Promise it won't turn into any sort of chick-flick moment."

Sam hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He hated keeping things from Dean, but somehow knew his brother wouldn't understand. _No, this is my problem. I can deal with it on my own._

"Naw . . . just wanna brush my teeth an' head to bed."

"Alright, Sam, I'll get your clothes for ya."

Sam pressed his ear against the door and listened until he heard his brother walk away. He then headed for the sink, opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste. With a quick swipe of his hand, he cleared away the steam on the mirror, and caught a glimpse of himself in the glass. Lightly, he trailed shaky fingers over his bruised and swollen lips. Vaguely he remembered biting down hard on his lower lip in an effort not to scream, and recalled the salty taste of blood in his mouth.

_Shit, how am I supposed to hide this from Dean? There's no freakin' way he's not gonna notice._

As he carefully brushed his teeth, Sam tried to think of an excuse Dean would believe. His father was always so busy looking for the next big hunt, Sam seriously doubted the eldest Winchester would even notice the bruising. But Dean, one the other hand, would definitely make it his business to find out what happened, and Sam just couldn't let that happen.

_I was playin' football with some friends, and I fell and bit my lip. That'll work. Dean should believe that. _

A sudden rap on the door, startled Sam and he jumped. With heart pounding loudly in his ears, Sam made his way to the door, and opened it just far enough to grab his clothes. Dean held on tightly to them, forcing Sam to yank them out of his brother's hands. Clothes in hand, Sam slammed the door shut and hastily locked it.

Slowly he eased on his boxers and sweat pants, wincing at the pain the subtle movements caused. He tugged on his shirt, and then gathered up his dirty clothes. For a moment he stood there staring at his torn flannel shirt as he gathered the courage to leave the bathroom to face his older brother. Sam drew in a slow staggered breath, wiped the moisture from his eyes and opened the door.

Dean stood at the entrance with arms crossed. His stern questioning gaze was instantly drawn to Sam's lips, and his face contorted in anger.

"What the hell happened to you, Sammy?" Dean's voice rose a octave as he reached out to touch Sam's face.

Sam instantly recoiled from his touch, a shudder of revulsion reverberating through his entire body. Without a word he pushed past his brother and rushed to his bedroom. He tried to slam the door shut, but Dean grabbed hold of it, and forced it wide open.

"Asked you what happen."

"W-was playing football . . . fell and bit my lip." Sam lowered his head, not able to look his brother in the eyes.

"You were playin' football?" Dean gave a curt nod as he pursed his lips, disbelief clearly written across his features. "Huh, never known you to play football before."

"Can't you jus' let it go, Dean." Sam threw his clothes onto the pile of dirty laundry on the floor, and headed to his bed. Drawing back the covers, he slowly eased onto the mattress. Carefully he lifted his legs off the ground, and grimaced as jarring pain racked his lower body. Heat rose to flush his face as tears welled in his eyes, and he was forced to stifle a cry.

"Did someone hurt you, Sammy?" Dean took a seat on his own bed, and looked intently at Sam as he waited for an answer. "Really need to know if they did."

Swallowing hard, Sam shook his head. "No. Told you I was playin' football." Sam rolled over, drew his blankets closely around him and curled his legs up close to his stomach. "Not feelin' really well. Gonna get some sleep."

Dean stood, walked the short distance between the two beds, and placed a hand on Sam's forehead. Sam instantly shrank away from his touch. Fear and repulsion at his brother's simple gesture coursed through Sam, and he involuntarily shivered with dread.

"Don't touch me." The words tumbled from Sam's mouth before he could manage to stop himself. "Please," he entreated, "jus' wanna get some sleep."

"'Kay, Sammy." Dean stood there for a moment longer, wanting desperately to say something more, but knew if Sam didn't want him to know what had happened right now, there was no way he was gonna pry it out of his little brother. He would find out though even if it meant that he had to follow his brother around until the truth came out.


	2. Chapter 2

_so, chappy two...thanks for all the awesome reviews!! It mean so much to me. This story is very close to my heart as my parents were foster parents pretty much all my life and I've witness the cruelty people can inflict on children firsthand. Children should never have to suffer in silence. thanks again for reading!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Two_

Dean entered the bedroom somewhere around midnight, and from the light shining in from the hallway, he saw his brother squirming around in bed. A sudden cry burst from Sam's lips as he desperately fought against his blankets. His little brother kicked and thrashed as if he were fighting for his life, and Dean's heart caught in his throat.

"Stop . . . please . . . don't," Sam cried out in his sleep as he continued to toss and turn.

"What the hell happened to you, Sammy," Dean murmured as he raked his fingers through his short scruffy hair. He thought to call his father, but without knowing what was the matter with Sam, Dean knew his father would think that at nineteen he was old enough to handle the situation himself.

With less confidence than he actually felt, Dean strode to Sam's bed and gently shook his brother awake. Sam instantly recoiled from his touch, pushing himself to the far corner of the bed as he pulled the blankets up to right under his chin.

"Hey, kiddo, you were havin' quite a nightmare."

Sam's eyes rounded as he frantically looked around the room. His wary gaze then settled on Dean, and he swallowed hard several times to catch his breath.

"You wanna talk about it, dude?" Dean asked as he cautiously took a seat beside his little brother.

"Was just a stupid nightmare." Sam rubbed the tears welling in his eyes with his thumb and index finger, and then shook his head. "It was nothin'."

"Was someone causing trouble with you in school?"

Again, Sam shook his head. "No, told you it was just a nightmare."

Dean scrubbed his hand across his face in frustration, a deep sigh escaping him as he tried to remain calm. "Whatever's the matter, Sammy, I can take care of it. You just gotta trust me."

Sam opened his mouth as if to say something, then quickly snapped it shut. Slowly he pushed himself into a sitting position, and Dean caught sight of the wince his brother was trying so desperately hard to conceal.

"Who hurt ya, Sam?"

"No one. Told ya that already." Sam turned his back on Dean, and hung his feet over the side of the bed.

"Been takin' care of you your whole life, Sammy, think I would know by now when you're in pain." To prove his point, Dean lightly pressed his fingertips against Sam's lower back, and Sam jerked away from him and leapt off the bed in an effort to escape Dean's touch.

"Told you not to touch me." Visibly trembling, Sam backed away toward the doorway.

Sam met Dean's gaze for the briefest of moments, and Dean could feel the warring emotions that played across his brother's face as if every single one of them was a solid punch to his gut. Tremors of fear the likes of which Dean had never experienced before raced through his entire body, leaving him more than just a little shaken. Whatever had happened to his brother was more than just a simple fight, and Dean was terrified he wouldn't be able to help his little brother.

"Please, Sam." Dean stood on shaky legs and cautiously headed toward his brother. He stopped abruptly when Sam backed even further away from him. In an attempt to halt Sam from retreating any further away, he held up his hands and lightly shook them in assurance that he wouldn't come any closer. "You gotta tell me what happened. Whatever it is, I swear I can fix it. Please, just tell me."

"No . . . you ca — there's nothing wrong with me." Sam spun around on his heel, and sprinted toward the bathroom.

Dean rushed after him, but the bathroom door slammed shut a split second before he made it there. Although he already knew it was useless, Dean jiggled the doorknob and found it was locked. Not even a moment later, he heard the shower faucet turn on. Sliding down the wall, Dean sat on the ground, drew up his legs and rested his forearms on them, not about to leave his spot until Sam came out of the bathroom.

While he waited, his mind churned over every possible reason why his brother would be acting the way he was at the moment. Yet the only thing that fit with Sam's current behavior was something that could never happen to his brother. That kind of thing just didn't happen to guys, especially if their last name was Winchester. Demons, monsters, fights, sure, but not that. _No, there had to be another explaination. It had to be a fight._ _It just had to be._

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam turned the water on full blast and climbed into the shower. His clothes clung to his lanky frame as steamy water washed over him. A single tear slipped down his cheek as his knees buckled and he slowly slid down the wall into a sitting position. He drew his legs close to his chest and hugged his arms around them.

_Dean told me to wait for him . . . told me he would pick me up after school. _Another tear snaked a trail down Sam's face and was lost as it mingle with the water dripping from his shaggy bangs. Laying his head on folded arms, Sam tilted it to the side so he could see the door. _If I had waited . . . If I hadn't . . . I must've done something wrong. . . ._

_If Dean ever finds out . . . Oh God, what the hell will he think of me? _He trembled as tears began to fall in earnest._ Winchesters' don't let this kind of thing happen to them . . . it would've never happened to Dean. _

Scattered thoughts tumbled around inside Sam's head as the water continued to shower down on him. A deep masculine voice rang repeatedly in his ears, saying things he couldn't stomach hearing, and he pressed his fingertips into his ears, hoping to drown out the sound of it. Back and forth, he rocked against the shower wall as he muttered under his breath, but the voice only grew louder.

_You're almost too pretty to be a boy . . . ._

Sam cringed and shied away, feeling as if someone had just trailed rough calloused fingers down his jawline. He grabbed the cleaning brush off the ledge, lathered it with soap and furiously scrubbed his face until his cheeks burned, but he couldn't make the dirty feeling of being touched go away.

_Almost too pretty to be a boy . . . ._

"No . . . it's not true." Sam vehemently shook his head as he whipped the brush at the shower wall.The sturdy plastic shower frame cracked as the wooden handle smack hard against it, and then the brush fell into the tub with a loud clatter.

"Sammy," Dean called out as he pounded on the door, and startled by the sound Sam flinched "You okay?"

Sam stared at the jagged crack now splitting apart the wall, and fleeting wondered if there was any way to fix it or was it damaged beyond repair. Even if the rest of the wall appeared in good condition otherwise, that one single fissure would eventually rot out whatever lied beneath until there was nothing left. It was ruined. There was no fixing it.

"Sam, answer me," Dean banged even harder on the door when Sam failed to respond. "So help me God, I'll freakin' bust this damn door down."

"M'okay," Sam finally muttered, knowing his brother would make good on his threat if he didn't respond. "Jus' dropped the shampoo bottle."

He trailed his finger down the sharpen edges of the splintered plastic, and was terrified of what his father and brother would think when they found out it was irreparably broken. They might pretend like it didn't matter, but he knew he would see the accusation and condemnation in their eyes.

With that thought still echoing through his mind, Sam turned off the water and climbed out of the tub. Not bothering to grab a towel off the rack, he made his way over to the door, and dropped to the ground beside it. Sam pressed his ear up to the wooden surface, and listened for any sounds coming from outside. Although he couldn't hear anything, he was fairly certain Dean was still sitting on the other side.

"Dean, you there?"

"Yeah, little brother, I'm here," Dean immediately responded.

Although the words were softly spoken and meant to be reassuring, Sam took no comfortable in them. And even though the door separated them, Dean was too close. Sam flinched as he felt his skin crawl in revulsion, and pushed himself away from the door.

"Can we . . . ." Sam's voice trailed off as he thought of what he wanted to say or more precisely how he wanted to say what he was thinking. "Is it alright if we just sit here an' not talk . . . Cause I really don't wanna talk right now."

Dean was silent for a moment, and Sam could just imagine the stark look of concern on his older brother's face at the unusual request.

"Yeah, Sammy, we can do that." Dean lightly brushed against the door, and with his heart catching in his throat, Sam backed further away. "I'm not plannin' on going anywhere. So take all the time you need."

"Sorry, Dean." Another involuntary shiver of repulsion coursed through Sam's body, and he slid a little further away from the door. Laying on the cold tile floor in his sodden clothes, Sam curled up in a tight ball. He closed his eyes, and consciously tried to will the violent images to disappear, and slowly he began to drift off to a fitful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_So, this chappy is a Deancentric chappy...think it is important to note that co-survivors of a sexual crime go through many of the same feelings as the victim, and really wanted to show that in this chapter. thanks so much for all the awesome reviews, they mean the world to me!! _

_Chapter Three_

Dean paced back and forth down the narrow hallway as fear gnawed away at his insides. Sam was effectively shutting Dean out of whatever was wrong with him, and Dean had no idea how to stop it from happening. His little brother had always confided in him from as far back as Dean could remember. And although Dean had always teased about chick-flick moments, he'd give anything at the moment to have one with Sam.

_He was gone for over four hours . . . four freakin' hours with God only knows what happening to him_ . . . .

Dean slammed his fist into the drywall over and over again, and with every hole he'd created he pictured the person who had hurt his brother. Knuckles bloodied and torn, he swung to find another vent for his growing rage.

_He won't even talk to me . . . God, he won't even let me near him._

Eyeing an old glass vase sitting on an end table, he snatch it up and hurled it at the wall. Without waiting to hear it shatter, Dean grabbed for the lamp, ripped the cord from the outlet, and heaved it at the wall as well.

_Was supposed to protect him . . . how the freakin' hell am I supposed to fix this? How the hell am I gonna tell Dad that Sam was . . . that he . . . this all my freakin' fault . . . ._

Dean kicked the coffee table sending it crashing to its side. Picking it up, he heaved it across the room. The table smashed into the television, sending it flying through the air. With a loud sizzling pop, the television tube shattered, acrid smoke rising from inside the broken screen.

_God, Sammy, I'm so sorry . . . so goddamn sorry . . . ._

Tears welling in his eyes, Dean whirled around to search for something more to throw, kick or punch, anything that would take away the tightly clenching pain in his heart. What he found instead sent his heart plummeting into the very pit of his stomach. Sam stood leaning against the wall in the darkened hallway, clothes drench, damp hair hanging in thick clumps around his haggard face.

"Sam." Dean took a cautionary step in his direction, and Sam backed away. He held a hand up to stop his brother from retreating and further away as he slowly took several backwards steps. "Look, I won't come any closer . . . won't touch you. I swear to God I won't. Just don't run away from me again."

"Dean, I . . . ." Sam's voiced trailed off as he glanced around at the disheveled room. His lower lip quivered as he slowly took in all the damage Dean had managed to create in such a short amount of time. He refocused his attention on Dean, and then lowered his head. "Need you to let this go, Dean. Please just let it go."

Dean looked from the shatter television, lamp and vase to the broken table, and then his gaze strayed to the holes in the wall, and he mentally kicked himself for losing restraint of his emotions. Sam needed him to be strong, and Dean was free falling out of control, but couldn't seem to stop the torrent of painful emotions welling deep inside of himself.

He wasn't sure how or why he knew it, but Dean was now certain that someone had violated his little brother. His brother. The one person Dean had sworn to protect with his life, and someone had touched him. Had violated him in the cruelest possible manner. There was no way to let go of that. No way to move on, and forget it as if it never happened.

"Someone hurt you, Sammy, how the hell am I supposed to let that go?"

"Because I'm asking you to." Sam met his gaze briefly then slowly turned on his heel, lowered his head and trudged to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Suddenly Dean felt as if he couldn't breathe, his brother's unbearable pain was crushing in on his lungs. The air thick and tainted with innocense lost, wrapped itself firmly around him, squeezing his chest in a viselike grip. He needed to get out. Get away. To be as far away from the thing that was killing him inside as he possibly could.

Without thought as to how much it would hurt Sam, Dean rushed to the door, fumbled with the handle and ripped the door wide open. Out into the night, he set off at a dead run. Down the quiet street he sprinted, the only sound coming from his feet pounding hard against the pavement. Tears filled is eyes, and streamed down his face unchecked. His heart beat furiously inside his chest, lungs burning with pain, but he didn't slow up.

He'd failed. Failed in the worst possible way. Now the person he cared most about in all the world was suffering for it. He couldn't make it right again. He couldn't fix it.

When Dean finally slowed his pace, he found himself standing in the middle of a graveyard. Clutching a hold of the painful stitch in his side, Dean bent over and took several deep breathes. His stomach churned in fierce protest as unwanted images of his brother crying out to him for help filled his mind. Cries that went unanswered. Dean dropped to his knees as he finally lost the battle against his warring stomach, and heaved repeatedly. Cradling his aching sides, he continued to gag long after the last of the contents of his stomach had made their mutinous departure.

Finally his stomach settled enough that he was able to push himself into a standing position, and then he peered around at his surroundings. In one way or another, he'd spent a great deal of his life traipsing through graveyards, and somehow it felt oddly comforting to be there now. It was a constant. A thing he understood. It made sense to him, no matter how irrational that might have sounded. If there was something wrong in the quiet of the graveyard, he knew he could fix it. He'd been trained by the best to make sure that whatever danger lied within the cemetery's shadowy depths, it would never pose a threat to the unsuspecting.

As he trudged through the rows of grave markers, he ran his fingers along the smooth curved marble stone of every one. He thought of all the corpses buried deep in the earth, and knew them all to be victims of something. Violent crime. Murder. Assault. Arson. Rape. No one left this world without being touched by some sort of evil, and it followed them to the hereafter. Vengeful spirits just didn't appear out of thin air. No, they were created by man's own inhumanity toward man.

The funny thing was that he'd never pictured them as victims before as he salted and burned their bones. They were always the threat, never the victim. Never the helpless fifteen-year-old boy begging for someone to stop hurting him. Never the young man who buried his pain so deep it turned into something else. Never the unsuspecting teenager who had never harmed a single person in his whole entire life. And never the brother of that boy who was forced to stand by and watch his younger sibling self-destruct.

For all his father's damn skilled expertise, Dean realized now that his dad had failed to train him one very important thing . . . what he should do if the threat wasn't supernatural. What if it was just the guy next door who happened to have a nasty little hidden obsession with younger boys.

"What the hell am I supposed to do, Dad?" he hollered, his voice echoing into the calm. Dean swung around on the spot and glared at all the gravestones, but saw only his father's face. "Tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do."

He waited, praying that by some weird cosmic chance in hell, some of his father's little sparks of earthly wisdom would come to him and guide him to do the right thing. But as always whereas his father was concerned, even his advice wasn't there when Dean really needed it the most.

"Yeah, figured as much." Dean gave a curt nod when nothing miraculously came to him. "I'll take care of this myself, an' you do what you always do best. Hunt your damn demon, an' I'll take care of Sam." Dean slowly turned and headed toward home, now determined to hunt down the man who had hurt his brother.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks so much to everyone for reading and reviewing, so very awesome of you all. It really means a lot to me as this story means a lot to me!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Four_

Sam heard the front door open and then slam shut, and cringed at the thought that his brother had left him alone. Panic quickly took hold of him, his heart racing as he worried whether or not his brother had taken the time to lock the door before he left. _What if he didn't? What if someone breaks in while Dean's gone? _

Fear gnawed away at his insides as he peered around the darkened room and realized he was trapped. He desperately wanted to go and check the locks, but his feet had a mind of their own, and they didn't want to budge from the spot where he was standing. _I'm safe in here . . . I can just lock the bedroom door, an' I'll be fine._

He took a step tentative forward, but stopped short at the sound of a loud creak in the floorboards. Looking to the door, Sam could've sworn he saw the handle turn and heard someone softly whispering his name. As he craned his neck to listen more closely, he heard the wind howling through the trees outside of the old home they were renting, and the creaks and moans of the house as it settled. A shivered coursed the length of his spine as the windows rattled, and out of the corner of his eye he could've sworn he saw a shadow move just outside the window.

_What if he followed me back here? _Sam cautiously backed away from the window, retreating to the furthest corner of the room_. What if he was just waiting until he knew I was alone again? _The windows rattled again, the wind growing increasingly louder. At a sudden flash of light in front of the window, he scrunched down between the dresser and the wall, and covered his head with his arms. _It was just a car . . . just a freakin' car, get a hold of yourself, Sam. You're a freakin' Winchester for cryin' out loud. _

In the near silence of the room, Sam listened to the constant ticking of the alarm clock on his bedside table. As he slowly counted off the minutes, he wondered where Dean was and how long it would be until his brother returned. His thoughts then turned to all the damage Dean had done in the livingroom, and another tremor of fear and humiliation raced through his body. _Oh God, he knows . . . he has to know. _

Dean had run out on him, and the only reason Sam could find for it was that his brother was so disgusted by the sight of him that he would rather leave than be forced to look at him. Sam had been so damn stupid and trusting he'd never believed that someone he knew would hurt him. But how could he explain that to Dean? _How do I even begin to explain to Dean that I just trustingly got into the car . . . that I trusted . . . that I never thought . . . God, this is all my fault._

_What if Dean blames me? _A tight knot formed in Sam's throat as a single tear trailed down his cheek, and he angrily brushed it away. _Don't you dare cry . . . only girls cry . . . only girls get — no . . . nothing happened. _

Startled at the sound of the front door opening then slamming shut, Sam crouched down even further in his spot and held his breath as he heard footsteps coming closer to the bedroom door. He pushed himself closer to the wall, praying that he could just somehow melt into it and disappear so no one would ever be able to find or hurt him again. The doorknob jiggled momentarily and then the door swung wide open.

Dean stood in the doorway looking around the small room for Sam. His steady gaze flitted across the two twin beds then followed the length of the wall until he spied his brother crouched in the corner between the tall dresser and the wall. With heart sinking a little further into his stomach, Dean made his way across the room, and knelt beside Sam. He reached out to touch his brother on the arm, but stopped short when he noticed Sam flinch and lowered his hand back to his side.

Fierce anger ignited in his heart, rage burning him up inside, but outwardly he remained as calm as he possibly could. The very last thing his brother needed to see at the moment was him losing control again.

"Sam . . . I . . . we can get through this," Dean began with the uncertainty that he was saying the right thing or if it was what his brother really needed to hear. He'd never been one who was good at sharing his feelings, and truthfully wished at the moment that they could just go on pretending as if nothing had ever happened. "I know you don't wanna talk about being . . . ." his voice trailed off as he thought of the word raped, vilely detesting the sound of it in association with his little brother. "Jus' wanted to tell ya that I'm here for ya, and I'm not plannin' on going anywhere."

He brusquely raked his fingers through his scruffy hair as he glanced around the bedroom, and then his gaze settled back on his brother and noticed for the first time the tears shimmering in Sam's hazel eyes. "God, Sammy, I'm so sorry . . . so damn sorry." Tears threatened to fall but Dean held them in check, knowing he needed to be strong for his brother. "I was late, ya know. . . there was strange tick coming from the engine of the Impala, an' I was tryin' to figure out what the hell it was, an' lost track of time." It was a pathetic excuse, and not one that would make things any better for Sam, but Dean needed his brother to know that what had happened was his fault and not Sam's.

"No, all my fault," Sam responded in a tone that was barely above a whisper. "Forgot to tell ya that today was a half-day . . . an' I really th-thought," Sam's voice hitched in his throat as he rubbed away the tears in his eyes, "really thought I'd be back to school in time to meet you."

Dean's hands clenched into tight fists, his stomach churning violently as he now realized his brother was missing for a lot longer than he'd first thought. He drew in a staggering breath, and forced down the bile rising in his throat. "It wasn't your fault, Sammy . . . none of this is your fault."

"Don't wanna talk about this." Sam slowly rose to his feet, and edged around the side of the dresser, careful not to touch Dean in any way, and trudged to his bed. Carefully, he eased himself onto the bed, and then drew the covers over himself. "Can we not talk about this, Dean? Jus' wanna let it go."

Dean stood and faced his brother, his heart breaking at how young and terrified his brother appeared. Again he had to fight the violent urge welling up inside himself to hit something, to pulverize it with his fists until the deep burning ache inside himself subsided. Yet he somehow realized that to Sam that would be seen as Dean's vile disgust toward him for what had happened, and the very last thing Dean wanted to do was make his brother blame himself anymore than he already was.

He'd let it go for now because that was what Sam wanted, but he would find out who had hurt his brother, and he would make sure they never harmed another person ever again. _I'll find you, you freakin' sonuvabitch, _he silently vowed. _An' when I do, you'll wish to God you never touched my brother._

"Okay, Sammy. We don't have to talk about it right now."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam muttered as he pulled the covers even closer to himself.

Not knowing what else he should say or do, Dean yanked off his t-shirt to get ready for bed. Sam drew in a sharp intake of air, and quickly pushed himself to edge of the bed. Immediately a wary look of distrust crossed Sam's troubled features, and Dean cursed underneath his breath for his total thoughtlessness. Quickly, he threw his shirt back on, and got into bed before he managed to do something else to make his brother any more uncomfortable.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean hadn't been able to sleep a wink that night. Every time he began to nod off, violent images of Sam being attacked swirled before his closed eyes, and his eyelids would snap back open. Sam whimpered and cried out in his sleep, but as much as Dean wanted to comfort him, he knew his brother would recoil from his touch, and it would only make matters worse. Finally he gave up any pretense of getting any sleep, got out of bed and crept quietly out of the room.

As Dean sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee, he thought about what he was going to say to his father about Sam. He'd picked up the phone several times to call his dad, and had even dialed the number once or twice, but always hung up before his father had a chance to answer. _What the hell am I supposed to say to you, Dad? Sorry, Dad, I screwed up royally and now Sam's been . . . God, how could I let this happen to you, Sammy? _

There was really no way of getting around the fact that he'd messed up, and he could just imagine the look of hatred in his father's eyes when the truth came out. It really didn't matter if Sam didn't blamed him for what had happened, his father's incrimination would be enough for the both of them. It was Dean's job to protect Sam. Period. No exceptions.

Dean heard the bathroom door close and a few moments later the shower turned on. _Not again. _Dean shook his head in disgust, hating himself all the more for what Sam was going through._ God, Sammy, you're clean enough . . . why the hell can't you see that you're clean enough? _

From what little Dean knew about victims of sexual crimes, he realized Sam had effectively washed away any evidence that might have incriminated the man who had done this to him right down the drain. Although he was pretty damn sure Sam didn't care a helluva lot about that at the moment.

About twenty minutes later, Sam lumbered into the kitchen fully dressed. His damp shaggy hair looked as if it hadn't been brushed, and hung in a snarled mess around his face. Dark smudges ringed his eyes, and he yawned repeatedly, attesting to the fact that although he had slept it was anything but restful. And although Sam was desperately trying to appear normal, he kept fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, and Dean couldn't fail to notice that his brother was wearing three shirts. Without a word to Dean, Sam headed to the refrigerator, opened it, looked inside for a few minutes, then closed the door without getting anything out of it.

"You hungry?" Dean asked as he turned to look at his brother. "I can fix ya something if you want."

"Naww . . . I'm good." Sam cautiously slid onto the seat opposite of Dean at the table, and Dean noticed the wince his brother tried to hide behind a faint smile. "Can you give me a ride to school?"

Dean's eyes rounded slightly in surprise upon hearing his brother's softly spoken request. He'd really thought Sam would want to stay home from school for at least a few days. "Was kinda thinkin' you'd stay home today . . . you know, get some rest. You look really worn out."

The truth of it was, Dean didn't want Sam to leave, didn't want his little brother out of his sight, and he highly doubted camping out in Sam's classrooms would go over very well with his teachers. He also realized that Sam really needed to see a doctor, but wasn't sure how he should broach the subject without upsetting his brother.

"Also was kinda thinkin' . . . well, I thought maybe — "

"You thought what, Dean?" Sam eyed him suspiciously, and Dean nearly lost the nerve to say what was utmost on his mind, but knew it was too important to let the matter go.

"I think you should go to see a doctor. Think it's important."

"You think it's important," Sam gave a curt nod, his face crumpling as tears welled in his eyes. "Well, you know what I think is important, Dean?" He stood so abruptly his chair toppled over backwards and landed with a dull thud. "School's important. So if you aren't gonna drive me, I'll walk."

"The hell you will." With fists tightly clenched, Dean shot to his feet. "Damn it, Sammy, I'm tryin' here. So give me a freakin' break." Not about to let his brother leave the house, Dean took a several steps toward Sam and reached out to grab hold of his brother's shirt. Sam instantly recoiled, a violent shudder coursing through his body as he squinched his eyes closed. Cursing under his breath, Dean backed away.

"Get your books, I'll drive you to school," Dean snatched his car keys off the counter, and strode quickly to the front door, afraid that if he stood there a moment longer, he would crumble and Sam would see how broken-hearted he was inside. "I'll wait for you in the car."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

From inside the car, Dean watched as his brother exited the house. For several long moments Sam stood on the steps and looked around, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed a couple of kids walking down the sidewalk heading toward the school. He waited until they passed by, and then quickly headed for the Impala. The usual quiet confidence Sam exuded in his posture was no longer present as he held his books tightly to his chest and hurried to get into the car and slammed the door shut behind him.

As they drove in silence, Sam leaned against the doorframe, and looked out the side window. The closer they came to the school, the more agitated Sam seemed to become, and as Dean stopped at a stoplight he saw Sam flinch and jerk away from the window. His little brother's breath quickened as he began to tremble, and as Dean glanced in his direction, he noticed Sam was staring at Dom's Pizzeria, a local after school hang out for all the kids.

"You were there yesterday?" Dean asked, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer just by Sam's reaction to seeing the place again. After a few moments, Sam gave a subtle nod, but didn't say a word. "An' something happened to you while you were there?"

"The light's green . . . can we jus' go," Sam replied, dodging the question and also avoiding Dean's steady gaze. "I'm gonna be late."

Sam's refusal to answer the question was all Dean needed to know that something definitely happened while his younger brother was at the pizza parlor. _Alright, Sammy, you don't have to tell me what happened. I'll find out myself._

With his mind solely on what could've possibly happened while his brother was at the pizza parlor, Dean picked up speed, and with engine roaring, he raced down the street toward the school. Within a matter of five minutes, they pulled into the school parking lot. Dean parked the Impala and waited for Sam to get out of the car.

Sam sat there with his hand on the door handle, not budging an inch. His wary gaze flitted across each group of students milling around the front of the building and then settled on a group of boys in varsity lettered jackets. He shrunk downward in his seat as a teacher walked up to the boys and stopped briefly to speak to them.

"You know those guys, Sammy?" Dean asked as he gestured toward the boys in varsity jackets, stomach churning at the thought that a group of guys might have ganged up on his little brother.

"No, they're on the wrestling team," Sam quickly supplied. "That's their coach."

"They didn't . . . I mean they weren't the ones who. . . ." Dean voice trailed off not knowing how to say what he wanted to say without causing Sam any more pain.

"Can we go home, Dean." Sam continued to watch the boys as the teacher finished speaking to them, strode away and entered the school building. "Jus' wanna go home." Sam's voice rose in panic as he ducked down further in his seat. "Please, can we leave now."

Dean gave a curt nod, but waited a few moments longer as he study each and every boy carefully, memorizing their faces. If any one of them hurt his brother, it would be the very last mistake they would ever make, Dean would make certain of that. A deep scowl settled across his features as he narrowed his eyes on the wrestlers, anger raging through his entire body at the thought that a young kid might actually harm another kid in such a vile and cruel way.

"Dean, l-let's go home," Sam urged again, his voice hitching in his throat, and as Dean looked at his brother he noticed the tears shimmering in Sam's eyes. "Please, let's just go home."

"Alright, Sammy." And without another word, Dean backed out of the parking lot and drove away.


	5. Chapter 5

_thanks so much for reading and for all the aweosme reviews!! It really means a lot to me!! Thanks to Gen and Lisa who have supported me in writing this story as it has been really emotionally draining to write!! you guys are the best!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Five_

Over the next three days, Dean and Sam had fallen into the same pattern. Dean would drive Sam to school, they would get to the parking lot, only to have Sam ask to go back home again. Every time Dean would bring up the subject of what had happened or broached the subject of going to the doctors, Sam would quickly change the subject or tune Dean out completely. And every time Dean would make his little brother something to eat, Sam would push the food around on the plate with his fork for a couple of minutes, and then mumble that he wasn't hungry.

Yet, it was the nights that were the worst by far. Sam's nightmares had become so violent that Dean was actually terrified to let his little brother fall asleep. With blood curdling screams ripping from his lips, Sam would wake abruptly, shaking uncontrollably with sweat dripping down his brow. He would then look wild-eyed around the room as if expecting to see his attacker. But whenever Dean asked him if he wanted to talk about it, Sam would say it was nothing, then storm off to the bathroom to take another shower.

By the forth night of getting absolutely no sleep, Dean was more than ready to get some real answers, but wasn't sure how to go about it without having Sam close down completely on him. So while Sam was in the shower, Dean grabbed the phone book and flipped through the pages, searching for someone who could help him get through to his brother.

He hated the idea of going behind his brother's back, but knew he was in way over his head, and was losing ground with each passing day. Today Sam hadn't even attempted to go to school, and when Dean mentioned going out to the store, Sam had actually begged him not to go.

Dean also realized that he was feeding into his brother's fears, locking the doors only to recheck them a few minutes later to make sure no one could just walk right in. He'd also taken to carrying his .45 around with him even while in the house which he knew only added to Sam's growing anxiety that he wasn't even safe in his own home. And it was really killing him inside that his attempts to make Sam feel safer were only making matters worse, but he was at a total loss as to what else he should be doing.

Trailing his finger down the phone numbers on the public information pages of the book, he tapped his index finger on the Crestview Rape Crisis hotline, and grabbed the phone to place the call. He was about to dial the number when he heard glass shattering, dropped the phone and practically flew to the bathroom door.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Sam stood staring at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't think he really looked all that different from a few days ago. Sure there were the dark smudges under his eyes, but nothing a little more sleep couldn't cure. His cheeks might have seemed a bit more hollowed than normal as well, and then there was the cut on his lower lip that was slowly starting to heal, but otherwise he looked the same.

A shudder of revulsion coursed through his body as he ran his fingers through his snarled hair. He shivered violently as he felt a warm, whiskey-scented breath against his cheek, and heard a deep masculine voice whispering in his ear. Cringing, Sam jerked his head from side to side as he felt strong fingers grip hold of his hair and yank his head backward.

_Love your hair, Sam . . . so long and silky soft. Just like a girl's. _

"No . . ." Sam cried out as he grasped a hold of the ends of his hair and looked at them long and hard. Reluctantly, he realized that his hair was a little longer than he would've normally worn it, coming to rest a little past his shoulders, but that didn't make it girlish. "No, it's not like girl's hair."

_Admit it, you're too pretty to be a boy . . . strutting around just begging to be noticed. I noticed you . . . noticed you the first time I saw you . . . ._

Hatefully, Sam stared at his reflection for a moment longer before he flung open the medicine cabinet. Choking back a sob, he knocked aside the toothbrushes, tooth paste, deodorant and boxes of bandages and finally found what he was searching for. He snatched up the scissors sitting on the second shelf and slammed the cabinet door shut. Scissors in hand, Sam grabbed a clump of his hair and began hacking away at it. Dark wisps fell into the sink and scattered across the floor as he continued chopping at his hair

_Why the hell did I let my hair grow so damn long . . . should have gotten it cut sooner . . . if I only had maybe . . . . _Tears slipped down Sam's cheeks as he continued to cut away at the longer strands at the back of his head. Malicious laughter echoed in his ears as the spicy scent of cologne seemed to fill the air.

_I noticed you . . . noticed you the first time I saw you . . . ._

Sam looked into the mirror again and jumped when he noticed a bearded man with intensely scrutinizing green eyes standing directly behind him. He shivered uncontrollably as rough, calloused fingers trailed the length of his spine, coming to rest at the small of his back.

Stomach churning, bile rose in Sam's throat as he felt an arm wrap tightly around his waist. The man he'd thought he could trust, leaned in and softly whispered in his ear.

_Doesn't matter what you do, you're still too pretty to be a boy._

"No. No. No. No . . . not true . . . it's not true." Sam took one last look at his image in the mirror, and disgusted by what he saw in the reflective glass he slammed his fist into it. Glass shattered and fell into the sink as he repeatedly smashed his hand into it. "It's not true . . . not true . . . God, why did you have to do this to me. . . didn't do anything wrong . . . ." Blood dripped from his battered knuckles as he crumpled to the ground. "Didn't do anything wrong," Sam muttered over and over as tears began to fall in earnest.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

With heart pounding furiously inside his chest, Dean rushed to the bathroom door, and rapped hard on the wooded surface. From within he could hear the muffled sound of his brother crying. Sam was mumbling something repeatedly, but Dean couldn't quite make out what his brother was saying. Dean's heart caught in his throat at how desperately sad and broken his little brother sounded.

"Sam . . . Sammy, open the door." Dean pressed his ear against the door and listened, silently praying that his brother would respond and that he hadn't done anything to hurt himself. Horrifying images flashed through his brain of what a person in Sam's state of mind could do with shards of broken glass, and pounded even harder on the door when his brother didn't answer. "Damn it, Sammy, open this freakin' door or I'm gonna kick it in."

Waiting a few more seconds with no response coming from Sam, Dean backed away from where he was standing, lifted his leg and slammed it full-force into door. The wood around the lock splintered as the door burst wide open. With one quick look around at the glass, Sam's bloodied knuckles and dark hair scattered across the floor, Dean hurried to his brother and dropped down beside him.

Dean glanced at the scissors tightly clenched in Sam's right hand and then looked to his little brother's butchered hair, and felt tears stinging at his eyes. For a moment he sat there at a complete loss as to what he should do, and then taking several slow calming breaths he slowly reached out to take the scissors from Sam. At first Sam held firmly to them as if they were his only lifeline and then very reluctantly he handed them to Dean.

"It's not that bad . . . I can fix this," Dean muttered softly as he made to touch his brother's hair, but Sam flinched and jerked away from him. "You have to trust me just a little here, Sammy. I promise I won't hurt you . . . jus' want to help."

"M-my hair was too damn long . . . l-looked like a girl . . . why the hell didn't I get it cut sooner?" Sam looked expectantly at Dean with tears shimmering in his hazel eyes, and Dean could clearly see that his little brother blamed himself for what had happened. "If . . . if it was short like yours . . . if I'd only cut it short . . . why the hell didn't I get it cut?"

A mutinous tear slipped down Dean's cheek as he listened to Sam blaming himself for what some vile monster had done to him, and he sadly brushed it away. Somehow he needed to make Sam understand what had happened was in no way his fault, but at the moment he doubted his brother would believe anything he had to say about the matter.

"Have to take a look at your hand, make sure you didn't get any glass in it and then bandage it up, 'kay?"

Sam glanced down at his hand, and gave a slight nod. Dean stood, headed out the door and Sam slowly followed him to the kitchen. Grabbing the first aid kit off the top of the refrigerator, Dean set the scissors on the table and motioned for Sam to take a seat. He pulled a chair up beside Sam's and sat. "Can I see your hand?" he asked when Sam made no attempt to allow him to bandage his knuckles. Somehow Dean understood that it needed to be Sam's decision. The person who had cruelly violated Sam had taken away his feelings that he had the right to make decisions regarding his own body, and although it was only a small gesture on Dean's part, he instinctively knew it was just what his brother needed at the moment. "Jus' want to clean and bandage it for ya," he softly coaxed when Sam still hesitated. "Swear that's all I'm gonna do."

After several heart-breakingly long moments, Sam finally held out his hand and Dean cautiously began to clean the wounds and pick out the pieces of glass embedded in Sam's skin. When Dean was finished, he checked to make sure none of the cuts required stitches and then carefully wrapped gauze around his brother's knuckles.

Dean eyed the scissors on the table and then glanced at his brother. Although Sam hadn't completely massacred his hair, it was still horribly uneven and quite a bit shorter in some spots compared to others.

"You did nothing wrong, Sammy," Dean slowly rose to stand, and grabbed the scissors. "It wasn't the length of your hair . . . it doesn't make you look like a girl." Cautiously he took a hold of a few strands of Sam's hair and although he felt his brother shudder, Sam didn't jerk away from his touch.

"Needs to be short," Sam mumbled as Dean began to cut his hair, evening out the shaggy layers the best he could manage. "Real short . . . like yours, Dean."

"No, it doesn't."

"Said it needs to be short."

Dean remembered how he'd always teased his little brother about the length of his hair, but in truth he couldn't imagine Sam any other way. No matter how many jokes he'd made about it in the past, Sam had staunchly held firm to wearing his hair the way he liked it. No one had ever made him think any less of his appearance. No one had ever undermined his belief in himself. That was until now.

"No, it really doesn't." Dean came around to stand in front of Sam, crouched beside him, and looked up into his brother's eyes. "Whoever hurt you . . . whoever did this to you . . . they did it, not you. This was not your fault." Dean hesitated, biting at his lower lip as he thought of what more he wanted to say. "It wasn't your hair or if you smiled at someone," he shrugged, and then shook his head, "wasn't because you may have befriended the wrong person or were too trusting. You did nothing wrong. No one had the right to touch you against you will."

Sam glanced at Dean for a moment and then lowered his head, a look of stark humiliation settling firmly on his features. "Must've done something. If I hadn't . . . if I didn't. . . ." his voice trailed off as he brushed away a single tear slipping down his cheek.

"Hey, look at me, Sam." Dean's eyes narrowed menacingly, voice rising in anger as he thought once again of the vile human who had made Sam feel as if he'd done something to deserve being assaulted, and his brother flinched. Cursing under his breath, Dean lowered his voice and tried again, "Please look at me, Sammy," he gently coaxed and smiled when Sam finally lifted his head and looked Dean in the eyes. "Don't let that monster do this to you . . . don't let him win. You're stronger than that. You determine your worth, not him . . . not him." Dean pursed his lips and gave a curt shake of his head. "What he did was wrong . . . so damn wrong, but he can't take away what's in here," Dean tapped at his heart, "an' he can't take what's up here," he touched the side of his temple. "You're a good person, Sam. You trust an' care about people, an' that evil sonuvabitch took advantage of that. He's a freakin' coward an' you're the strongest person I know."

Sam opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then shook his head and snapped his mouth shut. Grabbing hold of a few strands of hair, he kneaded them through his fingers as he stared at them then let them slip back into place.

"We can get through this, Sam. You an' me, jus' like always." Dean gestured between the two of them. "I know you're hurtin' like hell . . . can see how much this is killin' you inside, but things will get better. I swear to God they will."

"How, Dean? Tell me how things are gonna get better? Cause I can't see it." Standing abruptly, Sam turned his back on Dean. His body trembled as he leaned against the wall for support. "It's all great talk, but you're not the one who's afraid to walk outside the house because he might just be there. . . not the one who can't sleep at night cause the nightmares are so freakin bad." Sam swung to face Dean, his features contorting in fury as he repeatedly jabbed his index finger at his temple. "An' I can see his face in my mind and everywhere I freakin' look . . . can smell the scent of his cologne . . . feel his damn whiskey-scented breath against my cheek . . . . So, tell me how am I supposed to get through this? Tell me, Dean . . . please, tell me . . . really need to know cause I'm losin' it here an' all the freakin' sun will shine tomorrow speeches in the world aren't gonna make it go away."

Before Dean had a chance to respond, Sam turned on his heel and stormed away. A few moments later he heard the bedroom door slam shut, and felt as if any leeway he might have made had crumbled to ash in a matter of seconds. Yet, he couldn't help but feel a little relief that his brother had chosen that moment to retreat to their room. Dean's stomach had begun to churn so violently as Sam recounted his vivid memories of the man who had violated him, and Dean feared if he heard anymore he would make matters much worse by throwing up in front of his little brother, and that was the very last thing he wanted to happen.

Once again he felt the need to escape from his brother's overwhelming pain, but this time he had a destination in mind. This time he was determined to find some answers. This time he was going to the pizzeria and after that to the school. Whoever hurt his brother was going to pay for what they did. No one hurt his little brother and got away with it. No one.


	6. Chapter 6

_thanks so much for reading and for all the awesome reviews so far! This has been a really hard story to write, and all the encouragement has really helped along the way! thanks again! bambers;)_

_Chapter Six_

Dean sat behind the steering wheel of the Impala, staring in the window of the pizza parlor. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the wheel, his knuckles had long since turned white. Yet he couldn't bring himself to get out of his car. To get out of his vehicle, to go inside the pizza parlor, would be admitting to himself without any shadow of a doubt that his little brother had been cruelly assaulted, and Dean just wasn't certain he had the strength to learn the truth. 

Sam didn't want him to know what had happened, had made that point very clear, and as Dean sat there, he wondered if would be helping Sam or just hurting him all the more. But his brother deserved justice, deserved to feel safe and normal again, and just sitting in a car arguing out all the reasons why he shouldn't go inside the pizza parlor wasn't going to change what had happened to Sam.

With trembling fingers, Dean opened the car door and stepped out of the Impala. From his wallet he extracted a picture of his brother, and then trudged inside the restaurant. Several teens from Sam's school were milling around the establishment, playing video games and shooting pool, and Dean quickly spied a few kids wearing varsity wrestling jackets. His eyes narrowed on them, pure rage seething just below his outwardly calm exterior. Dean's hand slid to the hilt of his knife, concealed beneath his leather jacket as he headed toward the wrestlers. 

Tossing the picture of Sam down on the pool table the boys were playing at, Dean eyed each wrestler in turn. "Any of you know my brother?" he asked, his voice deadly calm, eyes glinting with unadulterated fury. 

A boy with wavy brown hair snatched up the picture, glanced at briefly and passed it off to one of his friends. "Yeah, we've seen him around school," he said as he leaned over the table, sized up his shot and took it, sinking the eight ball with ease. "Usually sticks pretty much to himself, although I think he was plannin' on tryin' out for the wrestling team. Saw him talking to Coach Driscoll quite a bit lately."

Another boy with sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes, handed the picture back to Dean. "Sam's in my Bio class, but haven't seen him in school since Monday."

"Any of you in here on Monday?" Dean asked as he looked at the picture of his brother, and then at each of the boys. 

"Yeah, came here after dinner to shoot some pool," the boy with wavy brown hair quickly supplied, "it's the only night we don't have practice after school."

"About what time were you here?"

The wrestler with deep blue eyes, glanced at the picture in Dean's hand again, and asked, "Is Sam missing or somethin'? We could help ya search for him if he is." 

From the look on the younger boy's face, and from the sincerity of his words, Dean was certain that the wrestler had no idea why he was being questioned in regards to Sam.

"Yeah, we could help ya," another bulky wrestler with dark auburn hair, quickly added. "The whole school joined in the search for Greg Peterson when he went missing a few month's ago back. Coach Driscoll organized the search, but no one ever found him."

"Coach Driscoll?" It was the second time in so many minutes that the older man's name had come up in the conversation, and for some unknown reason it was setting off clear warning bells in Dean's mind. Dean recalled the day that he'd driven Sam to school and had thought his brother was staring the wrestlers. Now Dean realized it wasn't them his brother was looking at, but the teacher who had stopped to chat with the boys. "So, this Coach Driscoll, he organized a search for this Peterson kid?"

"Yeah," the bulky, auburn-haired boy nodded, "Greg was a damn good wrestler, one of the coach's favorites, an' it hit him pretty hard when Greg disappeared."

"What did this Greg look like?" Dean asked, but already had a sneaking suspicion what the answer would be.

"Kinda tall," the blue-eyed boy quickly supplied, "shaggy brown hair. Said he liked to wear it long cause his girlfriend loved to run her fingers through it when they were . . . well, you know." The boy blushed considerably.

"When they were doin' it," the wrestler with wavy brown hair chuckled, playfully punching his friend in the arm, "Pete, here," he nudged his head in the sandy-haired boy's direction, "he's savin' himself for marriage."

"Am not," Pete argued, "jus' wrestling takes up a lot of my time." 

"An' the police never found Greg?" Dean asked, his stomach beginning to churn at the thought that his brother could have ended up just like Greg.

"Nope," Pete answered, "guess they figured after a while that he was a runaway. But none of us ever bought that story. Greg just wouldn't run away without telling Katie where he was going. He really loved her."

"Coach Driscoll was really broken up by Greg's disappearance," the short brown-haired boy interjected into the conversation. "Cancelled practice for an entire week afterwards. Said we were gonna search for Greg instead."

"Oh, I'm sure he was," Dean said with a curt nod. "Thanks for your help," he added, having heard enough from the wrestlers to determine that Coach Driscoll definitely was involved in Greg's disappearance. Now he just needed to link the older man to what had happened to Sam. 

"Sure thing," Pete said with a faint smile, "anything else we can do for ya . . . well, just ask."

Without saying anything further, Dean turned on his heel and strode to one of the waitresses. Tapping the young girl on the shoulder, he cleared his throat, and said, "Excuse me." 

She turned around, looked him up and down, then a slow smile spread across her face. "What can I do for ya, sugar?"

Dean glanced at her nametag, then looked her in the eye. "Jasmine, you didn't happen to be working here Monday afternoon? Around twelve or twelve thirty?"

"Naww . . . I always work the late shift, but Kari," she gestured to a trim, pretty girl with a long brown ponytail, "she was here that day."

"Thanks." Dean walked away, heading for the waitress Jasmine had just pointed out to him. "Kari?" he asked, and waited for her to set the tray of empty glasses she was holding down on the counter. When she turned to face him, he held up the picture of Sam. "Do you remember seeing my brother in here on Monday?"

Kari took the picture from Dean, studied it for a second then handed it back to him. "Yeah, I waited on him and his friend," she said with a smile.

"His friend?" 

"Yeah, some kid with glasses and short scruffy brown hair."

Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. "Did they leave together?"

Kari's brows drew together as she tried to recall if they had left the pizzeria together. "No, the other kid left soon after Coach Driscoll showed up."

"Coach Driscoll," Dean mumbled as the bile rose in his throat. He swallowed hard and continued, "Did the coach happen to talk to my brother?"

"Yeah, the coach ordered them a pizza, and when I came back with it, they were talking about wrestling." Kari walked over to an empty table, and began clearing off the plates and glasses, and Dean followed her. "Your brother must be a pretty good wrestler. The coach usually doesn't waste his time talking to anyone he doesn't think will make varsity at some point."

"How long were they here together?"

"I'd say probably an hour or so." Kari brought the dirty dishes to the counter, returned with a washcloth, and began cleaning off the table. She glanced up from her work, looked thoughtfully at Dean for a moment, and then asked, "Is your brother okay? I mean, he was really pretty out of it when he left here."

"What do you mean?" 

"Well, he was fine when I delivered their drinks, asked me where the bathroom was," she bit pensively at her lower lip as she recalled the details of the day, "but by the time I brought the check he could barely keep his head off the table."

_Sonuvabitch. _Dean scrubbed his hand across his face as understanding of what had happened that day fully dawned on him. "You don't happen to remember if my brother drank all his soda, do you?"

Kari shrugged. "Probably. They were here for a while."

"An' did they leave together?" Dean held his breath, waiting for her to respond, although he already knew the answer.

"Yeah, I asked if there was anything I could do to help cause your brother looked like he was ready to pass out, but the coach said he could handle it."

Dean's hands curled into tight fists, the need to strike out at something in his pain becoming almost unbearable. Unwanted images of his brother trustingly getting into the car of the man who had drugged him whirled with violent force through Dean's mind, almost staggering him. Heat rose to flush his face as a chilled sweat prickled at his back. He quickly grabbed hold of the back of a chair, feeling as if his knees were about to buckle at any moment.

"You okay?" Kari asked, concerned clearly etched in her gray-blue eyes. "You don't look good at all, maybe you should sit down."

"Naw . . . I'm good." Stomach lurching, Dean swallowed hard, and tasting the bile at the back of his throat, he gagged. "Jus' need some air," he uttered between gags, then bolted for the door with his hand covering his mouth. 

He'd barely made it back to the Impala before he dropped to his knees and retched. Tears stung at his eyes as he envisioned his little brother being so impaired by whatever the coach had slipped into his drink that he was unable to fight off the attack. Dean's gut clenched even tighter as he thought of Greg, realized it could have just as easily been Sam who had gone missing, and threw up even more violently. 

Body trembling uncontrollably, Dean grabbed hold of the door handle, and slowly made his way to his feet. With rage and sickness waging a war for dominance inside him, Dean slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, started the engine, and drove toward home. Flipping on the radio, he turned the music up to full-blast, wanting nothing more than to drowned out all the thoughts and violent images running through his mind. Yet, the hard metallic music that normally would have soothed his overly-taut nerves only served to add more fuel to the building inferno inside his heart. 

Dean knew he was quickly drowning in the firestorm that was his brother's pain, yet he couldn't seem to stop it from happening. It hurt to breathe . . . to think . . . his heart ached with such sadness and pain, at the moment it would almost be preferable that it stopped beating altogether rather than the alternative. 

Pulling into the driveway of the house they were renting, Dean killed the engine, but made no attempt to get out of the Impala. He was shaking so badly, he knew he had to pull himself together before going inside to face Sam again. As he sat staring into the front window of his house, Dean realized he was terrified to see his little brother again. Nothing he was doing was making anything better for Sam, and leaving his brother alone had probably managed to make matters even worse. 

_Stop being a freakin' coward, Dean. This isn't about you. _It was his father's voice Dean heard inside his head, barking orders as usual, but it didn't make the words any less true. _Sammy needs you now more than ever_, _an' you aren't doing him any good sitting out here while he's all alone. _

"Don't know if I can do it, Dad," Dean muttered as he wiped away the tears slipping down his cheeks. "I'm tryin' so damn hard . . . so damn hard, but I can't seem to make things better . . . can't make what happened go away."

_You could always reach your little brother, _came his father's voice again, _nothing can change that . . . you just need to try harder. Handed him to you when he was a baby . . . you saved him then, you can do the same now._

"Was scared out of my mind then . . . even more so now. What if I can't be what he needs? What if I hurt him even more than he's already hurting?"

_Guess you'll never know what you can accomplish if you're afraid to even get out of the car. If anyone can get through to Sammy, it's you. But deep down, you already know that, an' don't need anyone to tell you that._

It may not have actually been his father speaking the words Dean needed to hear most at the moment, but it didn't make them any less true. Deep in his heart, he always knew that he was Sam's anchor as Sam was his, and Dean realized the voice inside his head was right. He really didn't need anyone to tell him that. He would make things right, make Sam realize they could move forward from this, get beyond what had happened, because that was what he always did. They were more than just brothers, their bond stronger than anything that could happen to either of them along the way, and as long as they had each other, nothing would ever destroy them. 

"Thanks, Dad." Dean smiled as he got out of the car and headed for the front door. "Forgot for a moment . . . won't happen again."


	7. Chapter 7

_thanks so much for reading and for all the wonderful comments for this story!! thay really mean the world to me. Hopefully i am doing Sam and Dean's pain over the situation justice. thanks to everyone who has stuck with the story so far as i know it is a difficult subject to read about. bambers;)_

_Chapter Seven_

When Dean opened the front door and entered their house, he heard his little brother talking to someone, but didn't immediately see Sam. From the long, staggered pauses, he instantly realized Sam was on the phone, and from the slight tremor in his brother's voice, Dean gathered that it was their father on the other end of the line.

"No, Dad . . . things are just great here . . . c-couldn't be better," Sam's voice hitched in his throat, and Dean heard him draw in a shuddering breath. After another long pause, Sam continued, "another week or so . . . sure, Dad . . . I understand. The demon comes first . . . n-nothin else matters . . . do what ya gotta do."

Desperate to talk to his father, Dean rushed into the kitchen. He grabbed for the phone, but Sam quickly ducked away from him.

"Naww . . . really, everything's fine . . . jus' . . . jus' maybe catching a cold."

"Sammy, give me the damn phone," Dean ordered as he grabbed for the phone again. "Wanna talk to Dad."

Sam held the phone to his chest, and gave Dean a pleading look. "Please, Dean," he mumbled, his hands trembling as he finally handed the phone over to Dean. "Don't tell him . . . please, jus' . . . can't have him . . . he'll hate me."

For a moment all Dean could do was stare at his brother, his heart in his throat as he saw the look of desperation in the youngest Winchester's hazel eyes. With a curt nod, he conceded, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief. Dean held the phone to his ear, and forced himself to sound as normal as possible. "Hey, Dad."

"What's wrong with your brother, Dean?" John asked pointedly, never one to mince words when he sensed something was wrong.

Dean's hand clenched around the phone as he looked to his little brother once more. The truth of what had happened to Sam was on the tip of Dean's tongue to tell his dad, but as much as Dean needed his father at the moment, Sam needed Dean more.

"Think he might be catching the flu or somethin'. Nothin' I can't handle," Dean assured, hating the idea of lying to his father about Sam, and hoping his Dad would just accept the fact that Dean could handle the situation on his own. "So, when ya gonna be home?"

"Was just telling your brother that I got a lead on the demon so I might not be back for a few weeks."

_Please, Dad, come home . . . can't do this on my own. _Dean closed his eyes, silently willing his father to understand that for once the demon needed to come last, that they needed him home. Sam needed him . . . Dean needed him. "I understand," he finally said when his father made no attempt to say he would come home instead of hunting his damn demon. "Don't worry about me an' Sammy, I've got everything covered."

"Dean, is something wrong?" John asked, and for a moment Dean thought he detected a slight tremor in his Dad's voice, but just as quickly as he had heard it, it was gone. "Have to do this, Dean. If I lose track of the demon now, who knows when I'll pick up his trail again."

"Course you do, Dad." Dean couldn't hide the clear and undeniable disappointment in his tone. "Damn demon always comes first no matter what, right?"

"Dean." Sam grabbed for the phone, eyes pleading with Dean to stop what he was saying before it was too late. When Dean refused to give him the phone, Sam slipped past him and hit the button on receiver, hanging up the phone. Dean hung up the phone on the receiver and within a moment, the phone started ringing again. "Don't . . . please," Sam pleaded as Dean made to answer the call.

As the phone continued to ring, Dean hesitated, fighting against the warring emotions battling for control inside himself. Venomous hatred for the coach battled with the unadulterated rage he felt toward his father at the moment. Pain, so intense it nearly staggered him, welled and filled his heart until he felt as if he couldn't breathe let alone speak.

"Please, Dean . . . ." Sam begged, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. "Jus' don't tell him."

"Sammy," Dean licked his suddenly dry lips as he wondered if telling their father would make matters worse or better. "If I don't answer, Dad will know something's wrong. Think he has the right to know, Sam."

With lips quivering, Sam stared at phone for a moment, then gave a curt nod as he narrowed his eyes Dean. "Go ahead, tell him. Why the hell should I have any choice in the matter," his voice raised above the sound of the ringing phone, "ya know, I remember b-beggin'," Sam's voice hitched in his throat as a tear slipped down his cheek, "said . . . I said, please, don't . . . said no. An' it didn't matter then so why the hell should it matter now." Tears spilled from his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks as he began to tremble uncontrollably. "No's supposed to mean no, Dean . . . why the hell didn't it just mean no? Why the hell didn't he jus' stop when I begged him to?"

"Sammy . . . I . . . ." Dean wavered, seeing his little brother breaking apart right before his eyes. The incessant ringing of the phone filled the room as both brothers fell silent. Not knowing what to say to Sam at the moment, Dean choose to deal with his father instead, and answered the phone. "Sorry, Dad . . . was cookin' dinner an' ummm . . . dropped the phone."

Sam stared at Dean a few seconds longer then lowered his head and trudged out of the kitchen, heading toward their bedroom. Without bothering to flip on the light switch, he headed to his bed and flopped down on it. Smothering his face in his pillow, he screamed and screamed until his lungs ached, and throat burned with pain. His grip tightened around the edges of the pillow as he buried his face deeper into the soft feather pillow. Deep heartbroken sobs racked his body as he imagined the look of disgust on his father's face when Dean told him what happened.

His father was a Marine . . . a hunter, and things like this just didn't happen to people like him or Dean. They were too strong. They never would have allowed it to happen.

_You're weak an' pathetic, Sam. Should've been more like Dean . . . would've never happened if you were him. _The voice inside his head was his father's, and was filled with disgust and recrimination. _You're a freakin' Winchester for Christ's sake, shoulda been able to stop it from happening . . . Dean would've been able to stop someone from hurting him._

_I tried, Dad. I swear to God, I tried_. Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, and glanced around the darkened room. His gaze lingered on his brother's dresser, not seeing the wooden cabinet itself, but the bottle of Jack Daniels, he knew was hidden under his brother's t-shirts in the bottom drawer. _Nothin' would work right . . . don't know why nothin' would work right . . . tried makin' a fist . . . but my damn fingers wouldn't do what my brain was tellin them to do . . . why the hell couldn't I fight back?_

He slipped out of his bed, and headed to his brother's dresser, grabbed the bottle of liqueur from the bottom drawer, and then curled up in the corner of the room beside the tall chest of drawers. The moment he unscrewed the cap, the strong scent of whiskey assailed his senses, and his stomach began to churn in violent protest.

_Have a drink, Sam, we're not in school . . . it's just you and me now. No one has to know. _

Sam touched his trembling fingers to his lips, and closed his eyes as he recalled a bottle of cheap whiskey smashed against his bruised lips. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and snaked the same trail as the whiskey had when it had dribbled down his chin and onto his flannel shirt. He pressed his lips tightly together, turning his head to the side, and remembered how the deep amber liquid spilled and pooled on the bed beneath him. A cry caught in Sam's throat as the image of his face being mashed down into the mattress came rushing back full-force.

_Drink up, Sam . . . no sense wasting good whiskey._

"Sam . . . Sammy," Dean's voice broke in on Sam's horrifying memories, bringing him back to the present. Dean grabbed the whiskey and cap out of Sam's hand, sealed it back up and set it aside. He then sat beside Sam, pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his arms on them. "You know, if I thought that would help," he nudged his head toward the bottle of Jack Daniels, "I'd probably join ya in drinkin' the whole damn bottle." Dean eyed the bottle for a moment longer, and Sam could tell his brother was fighting the urge to rip the cap back off and chug down the fiery liquid inside. He glanced back at Sam, and a wry smile lit across his features. "Never makes the pain go away, Sammy. Jus' deadens it for a little while . . . an' usually makes matters worse in the long run."

"Dad on his way home?" Sam managed to utter, his voice barely above a whisper. Sam's heart skipped a beat as he held his breath, waiting for Dean to tell him how disgusted his father was at the thought of him.

"Not coming home, Sammy," Dean replied with a single shake of his head. "You were right, wasn't my place to tell him. An' if you don't ever want him to know, then it'll always be just between you an' me."

"You . . . you didn't tell him?" Sam's brows drew together in confusion, knowing his brother relied on his father's strength like Sam relied upon Dean's. "Don't understand."

"Well, I got to thinkin' about what you said." Dean turned slightly to face Sam. "No means no, always, Sammy . . . . Always. Some people don't get that, but it doesn't make it any less true."

Sam was silent for a moment as he mulled over what Dean had just said. His brother didn't really need to elaborate on what he was thinking or feeling for Sam to understand what he was trying to say. Dean didn't blame him for what had happened. Didn't think any less of him. Wasn't disgusted by the sight of him. Dean understood without question, and that thought alone brought a small smile to Sam's face. "Thanks, Dean."

"Not a problem, little brother."


	8. Chapter 8

_okay, so this was a very hard chapter to write, and as always, i tried to write it as delicately as possible. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!! This has been very difficult to write, but i really think it is worth it, and so the reviews mean way more than anyone can ever possibly know!! thanks again!! bambers;)_

_Chapter Eight_

Dean rethought his decision not to tell their father about what had happened to Sam a million times over the next two days. Since opening up a little bit about the assault, Sam had become even more sullen and withdrawn, and Dean was at a complete lose as to what he should do to help his little brother. But in the end, he knew that he'd made a promise to Sam and would be damned if he gave his little brother anymore reason to distrust him.

He glanced across the table at his brother, who was idly pushing his spaghetti across the plate with his fork, and heaved a deep sigh knowing that Sam hadn't taken a single bite of his food yet. Dean tried to recall if he'd seen his brother eat more than a few bites in last several days, and swore under his breath when he realized that he couldn't remember Sam eating much of anything at all since the assault. The youngest Winchester's cheeks were starting to hollow, dark circles plaguing his eyes, and Dean knew if he didn't get Sam some help soon, his little brother was going to become really ill.

"Sammy, you gotta eat something," Dean said, consciously trying to make it not sound like an order. "You're gonna make yourself sick not eating."

"Not hungry, Dean," Sam muttered without looking at Dean.

"Know I'm not the best cook, dude, but you've always liked my spaghetti," Dean tried again, not about to take no for an answer. "Even put pepperoni in the sauce, just like you like it."

Sam was silent for several long moments as he swirled some noodles around his fork, then just as Dean thought he might eat some of it, Sam dropped the fork onto the plate. "Can we not do this, Dean?"

"Do what?"

"Sit here pretending like everything's okay . . . you're normal . . . I'm normal, cause we both know it's not true."

Dean threw his fork down on the plate, and slumped back into his chair, not knowing what to say to his brother. He'd been trying so damn hard to make things better for Sam, and had failed miserably.

"I mean, I see the way you look at me when you don't think I'm looking," Sam went on to say, "so why don't ya just come out an' say what your thinkin? Cause I know damn well you're wondering why I didn't fight back. How I could just let it . . . it . . . ." Sam's voice hitched in his throat and then trailed off as he angrily swatted away the tears forming in his eyes.

"Sammy, I — "

"Just say it, Dean," Sam cut him off as he abruptly stood from his chair, "say you think I should've been able to stop him. Cause God knows that's what you're thinkin'. I'm a Winchester for Christ sake. Dad taught me to kill demons, werewolves, vengeful spirits and every other freakin' creature in between, an' I just let some . . . ." Sam turned away, shoulders sagging. "How could I let some freakin' guy rape me?" he said it so softly that Dean could barely hear the words, and Dean's heart plummted into his stomach. "How the hell could I let that happen?"

"Wasn't your fault, Sam." Dean stood, and moved to stand behind his brother. Hesitantly placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, he quickly removed it when Sam flinched involuntarily.

"Think Dad will believe it wasn't my fault? Think he won't be disgusted by the sight of me?"

"Think he'll understand, Sammy," Dean replied, thinking of what he'd learned while at the pizza parlor. "An' no, I don't think he'll be disgusted by the sight of you. Dad may be a lot of things . . .may not have been around a lot, but that never changed how he felt about us. You know that."

"No, I don't know that." Sam sadly shook his head. "All he'll see when he looks at me is that I let it happen, won't matter what I say . . . ." Sam knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground, pushed himself up against the wall, and lowered his head. "Don't want him to know . . . don't want anyone to know."

Dean took a seat beside Sam, and took several calming breaths as he tried to gather the courage he needed to ask what had happened that day. Instinctively, he knew that if Sam was going to get beyond what had happened to him, he needed to talk about it. But as Dean's stomach began to churn in violent protest at the mere thought of it, he didn't know if he could handle hearing the details. Swallowing back the vile taste in his mouth, Dean took a deep breath and before he could stop himself, said, "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know what happened, Sammy." When Sam looked as if he might argue, Dean further added, "Please, just tell me what happened." He wanted to mention what he'd leaned at the pizza parlor, but at the moment feared his brother would shut down completely if he thought Dean went behind his back to find out what happened on his own.

For the longest time Sam remained silent with his head lowered, fingers clutched firmly around fistfuls of hair. Just as Dean was beginning to think his brother would never speak, Sam drew in a shaky breath, and uttered, "Was jus' tryin' to . . . thought I'd fit in better . . . was trained to fight by Dad, so figured . . . ." his voice trailed off as his body began to tremble.

"You wanted to join the wrestling team," Dean supplied, knowing he was treading on thin ice by filling in what Sam hadn't admitted yet.

With a single nod, Sam muttered, "Yeah," and his head sunk even lower as his shoulders sagged. "Didn't think I had much of a shot gettin' into varsity, though I thought maybe JV . . . but he said I was real good."

"The coach." Dean's hands clenched into tight fists as he tried to remain calm.

"Was real nice to me . . . too damn nice," Sam choked on a sob, his breathing becoming more rapid as he recounted what had happened before he'd been assaulted. "God, he was always finding reasons to touch me . . . nothin' wrong with that, huh? He's the coach for Christ's sake. Just showin' me some damn wrestling moves . . . . damn it, I jus' . . . God, I didn't even think there was anythin' wrong with it. How could've I been so damn stupid?" He finally glanced in Dean's direction as if he expected Dean to have the answers he so desperately needed at the moment.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Sammy," Dean replied, willing himself not to look away from his brother, knowing that if he did, Sam would think he was sickened by the sight of him. "He was your teacher, an' he took advantage of his position of authority."

"An' then he just showed up . . . I mean, he ordered pizza . . . said he wanted to talk about wrestling." Sam squinched his eyes closed as he swallowed hard and pushed onward, "Could smell the whiskey on his breath . . . could smell it clear across the table . . . but he didn't . . . I mean, he wasn't drunk . . . or maybe he was."

"Doesn't matter if he was or wasn't, it's still no excuse for what he did," Dean said, wanting Sam to realize that just because the man was drunk, it didn't make him any less responsible for his actions.

"Then things got all . . . I dunno . . . felt sick, an' he offered to give me a ride home."

"But he didn't bring you home." Dean was now trembling just as badly as Sam, his heart shattering for his little brother, who's only crime had been that he was too damn trusting. "Where did he take you?"

"Dunno . . . could smell mold . . . it was damp and musty . . . sm-small windows up above."

"Small windows like you would see in a basement?"

"They . . . they were painted black," Sam muttered, so deep in reliving the details of the assault that he hadn't even heard Dean's question. "An' . . . there were pictures on the walls . . . God, they were everywhere . . . an' I could hear him takin' pictures, but I couldn't move. Why the hell couldn't I move? Jus' wanted to come home, but I couldn't get my legs to work. Jus' wanted to come home . . . ."

Tears were now streaming down Sam's cheeks, but he didn't even seem to notice as he continued to relive the abject horror of that day. Dean, on the other hand, felt his own tears as they burned hot trails down his face, and with each one that fell he vowed revenge for all that Sam had suffered.

"H-hurt so damn bad . . . so damn much . . . an' he wouldn't stop . . . begged him to stop, but he wouldn't. Said . . . he said, he was givin' me what I'd been beggin' for since he'd first laid eyes on me . . . wasn't true, Dean . . . swear to God, it w-wasn't true." Sam looked beseechingly into Dean's eyes, his pain so prevalent and devastating, that it stole Dean's breath away. "Y-you have to believe me . . . it wasn't true."

"I believe you, Sammy," Dean uttered in a breathless whisper. An' believe me when I say, he will pay for what he did to you."


	9. Chapter 9

_so, I just don't believe Dean can go this alone any longer after hearing what happened to Sam...he is drowning fast and really needs someone to talk to...He needs his father...so for those who were waiting for John to make an appearance, here it is...thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews...this has been very difficult to write and they do make it a lot easier. thanks again...bambers;)_

_Chapter Nine_

It was well past midnight, but sleep had alluded Dean after hearing Sam recount what had happened to him. Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Dean lowered his head to rest it against folded arms, and gave free reign to his emotions. While his little brother had been awake, Dean had been stoically strong, holding back his own unbearable pain as he watched Sam die a little more inside at having to relive the details of the assault against him. But once he had finally gotten his little brother to sleep, Dean gave in to the pain welling deep inside him, and his silent tears began to fall in earnest. His heart ached with such overwhelming sadness, he wondered if any amount of tears would wash away all the pain he felt burning up inside of him. His head pounded furiously, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, but still he cried, needing the release it offered, but it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

_You should be going after Driscoll, but instead you're just sittin' here bawlin' like a freakin' baby. Stop your damn crying, Dean, it didn't happen to you . . . . It didn't happen to you. _An unexpected deep sigh of relief issued from Dean's mouth, and then the gnawing guilt came. It wasn't the same kind of guilt as he had felt for not being there to protect Sam when he needed it the most, but it was just as crippling, nonetheless. He would never admit aloud, and especially not to Sam, but a small part of himself was utterly relieved that it hadn't happened to him. Feelings of dread and shame washed over him, knowing that he would rather have it happen to someone else rather than to him. _What the hell's wrong with me? I'm sittin' here feeling relieved that it didn't happen to me . . . God, I would die to protect Sammy, an' yet it comes to something like this an' I'm freakin' relieved that it happened to him instead of me._

If this had happened to any other family, and one of the members had felt some small sense of relief at the thought of it not being them who had been raped, Dean would have completely understood it. The abject fear of someone violating them so viciously. The shame thereafter that didn't just go away because they wished it to. The self-loathing of knowing that they hadn't been able to prevent it from happening. The humiliation at being forced to admit what had been done to them. Dean could definitely understand why another person might have been secretly relieved that this had happen to someone else instead of them, but he was a Winchester . . . was Sam's big brother, his protector. And no matter if it was perfectly acceptable for others to feel this way, it was definitely not all right for him to have the same feelings.

As his tears began to subside, a slow burning rage welled up and took hold of him. His own lack of strength in the face of adversity fueling the flames. The need to kill the man who had hurt his brother so badly, overriding almost every other thought. And it truly terrified Dean to think that he might actually be capable of taking another person's life. More than anything, he wanted Driscoll to suffer for what he had done to Sam, but to kill another living person in cold blood, Dean wasn't so sure he could do that, no matter the circumstances.

His thoughts were so jumbled, the growing need for revenge warring with his own doubts and the need to do what was right for Sam, that Dean knew if he didn't get some sort of help soon, he was going to make matters a lot worse. He needed his father. Needed him more than anything. But how could he call his Dad when he'd promised Sam he wouldn't? Sam would never forgive Dean if their father came home after finding out what had happened and was anything less than completely supportive. And although Dean would have liked to believe that his father would be understanding, he still had nagging doubts. But his doubts weren't enough to keep him from picking up the phone and dialing his father's number.

The phone rang several times before his father finally picked up. "Hello," came his Dad's groggy sounding voice, and Dean knew instinctively that he had woken the eldest Winchester from his slumber.

"Dad, it's Dean," Dean uttered in a breathless rush, and then cursed under his breath at how panicked he sounded, and knew it would instantly set of alarm bells in the older man's head.

"What's wrong, Dean?" John replied, now sounding wide awake, deep concern edging his tone. "Is Sammy alright?"

For a few seconds, Dean just stared toward the back bedroom where his little brother was asleep, fearing that he was making a huge mistake. But again, his own need for his father to come home, overrode any doubts he was having at the moment. "Need you to come home, now."

"What happened?" his father asked, and Dean cringed, hearing the clear sound of incrimination in his tone.

With one last glance at the bedroom, Dean stretched the phone's extension cord, trudged out the back door of their home, and slumped down on the steps. "It's Sam . . . he was . . . he . . . I really need you home, Dad." A low muffled sob escaped Dean, and he cringed, knowing his father had definitely heard it.

"He was what, Dean?" John's voice trembled ever-so-slightly, and Dean could detect the sounds of his father hastily throwing hunting gear into his duffel bag. When Dean failed to respond after several very long seconds, John again demanded, "He was what . . . what happened to your brother?"

Dean's mouth suddenly went dry, and the word that formed on his lips, slipped past them in an almost inaudible whisper. "Raped."

John was silent for the longest time, and Dean could just imagine the myriad of emotions crossing the eldest Winchester's features. When he finally spoke again, there was a definite tremor in his voice, and if Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn his father was crying. "H-he was . . . someone ra — hurt him . . . wh-when did it happen?"

"A little over a week ago," Dean reluctantly admitted, and braced himself for the unbridled anger he knew would follow that one simple statement.

"Damn it, Dean, talked to you just the other freakin' day," John exploded, unleashing his full fury on Dean, "why the hell didn't you tell me then . . . why the hell did you just let me think everything was okay?"

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean tried to block out the blame he heard so clearly etched in his father's tone. "H-he didn't want you to know . . . was afraid of what you would think of him." At that thought, Dean's voice grew in strength, and as he took a slow calming breath, he gathered his courage to stand up to his father. "But he has nothing to worry about does he, Dad? Because if he does . . . if you think to blame him for this in any way . . . look at him any differently because of what happened, I will take him so far away from here that you'll never find either of us." He took another breath, his courage wavering for the slightest of moments, but as he slowly released a steady stream of air, his resolve returned in force. "An' I learned from the best, so don't think for a second that I won't do exactly as I said."

"Give me a little damn credit here, Dean," John shot back, "you think I'm just gonna rush in there an' blame my own freakin' child for something that some sonuvabitch did to him?" The heavy sound of John's breathing filled the line, and Dean knew the older man was trying his damnedest to control his growing rage. "Had the right to know, Dean . . . had the right to be there for Sam . . . and no matter what you might think of me, I would never make him feel as if this was his fault."

Hearing how broken and desperately sad his father sounded, Dean's heart shattered even more than it had already been. "Sorry, Dad, was just doin' what I thought was best for Sam at the time. But he needs you . . . I need you, so please come home."

After another long pause, John, voice thick with emotion, finally responded, "I'm not blamin' you, Dean. I know you were doin' what you thought was best for your little brother. An' for what it's worth, I'm proud of the way you stood up to me." John fell silent again, and Dean could hear the soft sound of him sobbing on the other end of the line.

Other people might have considered John as hard as nails, might have found him to be uncaring toward his sons and single-minded in his need to avenge their mother's death, but Dean knew better. Everything he ever was or did in life, was for his children's benefit, and to think he would feel any differently in this instance was doing a great disservice to the man who had given up everything to protect the people he had cared about the most.

"How the hell am I supposed to help him, Dean . . . how can I make him see that I don't blame him for this?"

"Just be there for him, Dad . . . jus' listen to what he has to say. Think if he can see that you don't blame him, then maybe he'll eventually stop blaming himself."

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

_so, hopefully, people will like how I have portrayed John in this chapter. I just really can't picture him behaving any other way under the circumstances. Everything he does or is, is done solely for the saftey and protection of his children, and that might mean that he comes across as cold sometimes, but I believe he loves his children deeply and unconditionally...and to portray him as anything else in this instance would being doing an injustice to his character...please let me know what you think!! _

_I was kind of worried about portraying Dean as if he was slightly relieved that it hadn't been him who had been raped, but I honestly believe that most people might feel this way, even if they are hurting for the victim of the crime. I think this would be more so in the case of a man, who has always been in control. For Dean, I would think it would just add to his already mounting guilt, and i can only hope that i got this part as accurate as i picture it...thanks again for reading!! bambers;)_


	10. Chapter 10

_Sorry about the long delay...been sick for a while now, and actually this was a hard chappy to write as it is all in John's POV...I am really hoping i got the emotions right...thanks for reading and for all the really wonderful reviews!! bambers;) _

_Chapter Ten_

John hung up the phone and slumped down on the bed, scrubbing his had across his beard as he glanced around the crummy little motel room he had rented. Hot tears stung at his eyes, blurring his vision as he looked at his duffel full of weapons. Weapons he had used to kill every kind of creature imaginable. Weapons that he had taught both of his sons to use with frightening accuracy. Weapons that had saved his life more times than he could count. And weapons that had been absolutely useless when his youngest son had needed them the most.

_I was useless when he needed me the most . . . If I hadn't been away so damn much . . . if I'd I only been there . . . damn it, why the hell wasn't I there?_

_He was raped . . . . _He heard his eldest son's voice echoing over and over again inside his mind_, _and shuddered, feeling the full brunt of the incrimination behind those vile words. Although Dean might never say it aloud, the fact that he had said that he would take Sam and disappear so John would never find them, spoke utter volumes.

And the cold harsh, unrelenting truth of it was, it was John's fault. He had left his children alone more often than not. He had relied on them to take care of themselves. Had forced them into living a life on the run, never settling down long enough to have a real life. He cared more about them than anything else in the world. But for all his love and concern for their safety, he had in truth, literally fed them to the wolves. Not necessarily the kind that he could hunt and kill, but the kind that preyed on the weak and innocent.

Yanking the flask out of his jacket pocket, John unscrewed the cap, and took several long swallows of the fiery liquid, trying to build his courage to actually leave the motel room and drive home to his sons.

_H-he didn't want you to know . . . was afraid of what you will think of him._ It was Dean's voice he heard again as he gulped down more of the whiskey. Sam didn't want him to come home. His youngest son wanted him to stay far away, and be gone for as long of an amount of time as he possibly could, and that thought alone had him regretting his decision in telling Dean he would come home as soon as possible. John quickly downed the rest of the whiskey in his silver flask, and then reached for the phone, realizing he would only matters much worse for Sam if he went home.

_He may not realize it right now, but our little boy needs you there with him. _It was Mary's calm reassuring voice that John now heard inside his head, and drew on her strength as he hung the phone back up on the receiver. _Dean shouldn't have to do this alone, though God only knows that he'll try is damnedest to make things better for Sammy. But that's your job, John, the job I left you with. An' you need to do this for Sam and for Dean. For once, you need to put aside hunting, an' focus on being a father to our boys. _

"I'm so sorry, Mary . . . so damn sorry," John sobbed broken-heartedly, "I've screwed everything up, an' now our boys are suffering for it." His anger ignited as he thought of Sam being cruelly assault by some sonuvabitch who had a perverse fascination with younger boys. John glanced down at the flask still clutched tightly in his hand and whipped it at the wall, leaving a large, jagged hole in the drywall. _Damn it, Sammy, I've only ever wanted to protect you an' your brother . . . that's all I ever wanted to do. _Burying his face in his hands, John imagined the look of hatred and blame in his youngest son's eyes directed solely at him. _How the hell am I supposed to face you when I know damn well this is all my fault . . . that nothin' would've ever happened to you if I had been there to protect an' watch out for you?_

_But whether you want me there or not, I am coming home. _With head hung low, John slowly got to his feet, gathered his gear together and headed for the door.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

John pulled into the driveway of the home they were renting sometime after dark the next evening. He knew he could've gotten there a lot faster, but his own growing fears had him stopping at every single gas station and two-bit diner along the way. And now he sat alone in his truck, staring into the front window, absolutely terrified to move from his spot. For all the hunting he had ever done in his life, nothing had ever made his stomach churn in such a violent protest as walking the short distance and entering his own home.

The subtle movement of the curtains being pushed slightly to the side, caught John's eye, and without actually seeing anyone, he knew it was Dean looking out at him. Knowing he couldn't put off going inside any longer, John grabbed his duffel, got out of the truck and headed for the front entrance. Before he even had a chance to lift a hand to the doorknob, Dean flung the door wide open, and the look of unadulterated relief on his eldest son's face nearly staggered him.

For the briefest of moments, they stood staring at each other. No words were necessary as a deep understanding that only they shared passed between them. Dean then took hold of John's duffel and stepped aside to let him in the house.

"Wh-where is he?" John cursed under his breath as he heard the slight tremor in his own voice. He wanted to be strong for his sons, and was already failing miserably. "Where's your brother."

"He's in our bedroom," Dean hastily responded, his eyes rounding with fear and concern for his brother, "been spendin' most of his time there . . . he won't eat . . . isn't sleepin' hardly at all. An' when he does . . . damn it, Dad, the nightmares are so freakin' bad, an' I don't know what to do for him."

"Did you tell him I was coming home?" John asked, and from the guilty expression that crossed Dean's features, he knew that his oldest had conveniently forgotten to mention it to Sam. "So he doesn't know that I know what happened to him."

"I'm sorry, Dad, promised him I wouldn't tell you, an' if he thought I went against my word . . . ." Dean's voiced trailed off, and John understood that Dean believed if Sam thought he betrayed him, his little brother would never trust him again. "I just couldn't tell him."

"Dean, outside. Now. We need to talk," John gruffly ordered, eyeing his eldest son, and inwardly cringed when he noticed his son's shoulders droop as he lowered his head. He hadn't meant for the words to come out sounding so harsh, but had been so use to giving orders and having them followed without question that it was only nature for him to do so now as well.

"Yes, Sir," Dean mumbled dejectedly, and trudged out the front door without argument.

Once outside, Dean slumped down onto the cement steps, and purposely kept his gaze averted from John's. From the slight tremor in his son's hands as he clasped them tightly together, and how Dean couldn't work up the courage to look him in the eye, John realized the true extent of how devastated his oldest child was because he felt that he had failed in protecting his little brother. Scrubbing a hand across his beard, John let out a deep sigh as he took a seat beside Dean.

Resting his head against clasped hands, John rubbed the moisture from his eyes with his thumbs, and after a long pause, asked, "Did you take him to the hospital?"

"Wanted to take him to see a doctor, but I couldn't get him to go." Dean cast a brief sidelong glance in his father's direction, and then reluctantly admitted, "Can't even get him to leave the house now."

"An' did he tell you what happened?" John asked, although he wasn't really all that certain he wanted to know the details, but stoically listened as Dean recounted all that Sam had told him, and everything Dean had learned on his own. When his son finally fell silent and looked to him, John was forced to turn away to hide the tears now brimming in his eyes.

With a quick brush of his hand, he wiped away a traitorous tear that snaked a path down his left cheek. The very last thing he wanted at the moment was for his eldest son to see him as weak and falling apart when he needed to be the shoulder they relied upon to make it through this. He drew in a shaky breath, and pushed down his own overwhelming grief, making room to take on both of theirs, knowing Dean was just as broken as Sam.

"Dean, find out where this coach lives," he ordered, once again in control of his emotions, "find out everything you can about him, where he goes, what he does after work, which bars he goes to. Everything. Understand me?"

"Yes, Sir," Dean replied as he got to his feet, and searched his pockets for his car keys.

"Don't want him makin' a move without you bein' at least ten steps ahead of him, got me?"

"Not a problem." An audible sigh of relief issued past Dean's lips, and John could tell his eldest was glad that he no longer alone in taking care of Sam.

"An' Dean, I don't want you goin' anywhere near him without me around." He eyed his son, and as a look of understanding passed between them, John knew his eldest had plans of his own whereas the coach was concerned. "I'm serious, Dean. Don't want you anywhere near that sonuvabitch. Do I make myself clear?"

Dean gave a curt nod, but the glimmer of defiance John saw clearly etched in his son's eyes, told him that this was one order his son might actually think to disobey. Before John had a chance to warn Dean again to stay away from the coach, his son was hightailing it down the driveway toward his Impala, leaving John to either sit there or go inside to face Sam.

With a mixture of dread and rage building inside of him, John slowly rose to stand and headed into the house. At the entranceway, he hesitated, yanked the silver flask out of his pocket, and took a quick drink to regain his courage. As he stood there, he glanced around their sparsely furnished livingroom, and noticed for the first time that the television screen was smashed and several pieces of their furniture were now broken beyond repair. Walking further into the room, he stopped and ran his fingers over the holes in the drywall, wondering which of his sons had lost control of their tightly leashed emotions and allowed free reign to their overwhelming anger and pain.

His hands curled into a tight fists, and it took every ounce of sheer willpower he possessed not to strike out as well. He needed to be strong for both his boys, and to do that, he couldn't give in to what was killing him inside, no matter how much he needed to at the moment. _He needs to know I don't blame him for this. Needs to know I am here for him. But how do I do that? An' how the hell do I make him see this wasn't his fault? _

John took a deep breath, relaxed his posture, and took another long intake of air, slowly releasing it. _Come on, John, you can do this, Sam needs you. _Taking several very small steps forward, he felt his knees begin to shake and buckle as cold sweat broke out on the nape of his neck and trickled down his back. _Damn it, I kill freakin' demons an' monsters for a living, I shouldn't be afraid to see my own child. _But the truth was that he was absolutely terrified, and that thought had him taking a backward step to lean against the wall. His legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground, resting his head in his hands as tears filled his eyes. _What if I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? I shouldn't have come home. He needs more than I know how to give. He's always needed more than I've known how to give._

At the sound of the door at the far end of the hall creaking open, John glanced up, and through blurred vision saw his youngest child standing at the entrance to his bedroom. Dark smudges lined Sam's eyes, attesting to his severe lack of sleep. His overly-pale cheeks were hollowed and gaunt, making his eyes appear all the larger and more terrified than John had ever seen them before. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and John couldn't help but notice that he was wearing at least three shirts. But for as bad as Sam looked, the thing that broke John's heart the most was when he saw his youngest child's lower lip begin to quiver as his sad, desolate eyes filled with tears.

"He — he told you, didn't he?" Sam muttered, the hurt and feelings of betrayal clearly etched into his features.

"Sam, your brother was — "

"Said he wouldn't tell," Sam retreated a few steps backward into his room, "said no meant no. He said always . . . but no doesn't mean no, does it, Dad?" He took a few more back steps, and gripped hold of the door. "Cause twice now I've said no, and it didn't mean a damn thing either time."

"Your brother was worried about you, Sammy." John pushed himself to his feet and cautiously took a few steps toward Sam. "I'm worried about you." Slowly he inched closer to his son, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around Sam and tell him that everything was going to be okay. "I know it doesn't seem like it now, but things will get better."

Sam shook his head. "No, they won't." Tears slipped freely down his cheeks unchecked as he gestured toward John's face. "Cause whenever I look at you from now on, I'm always gonna see that look of not so thinly veiled disgust in your eyes. I was weak an' pathetic, an' no where near the kind of son you would want to have. So why don't ya jus' freakin' admit it . . . you're disgusted just lookin' at me."

"Sam, this wasn't your fault," John tried to reason, now fully understanding why Dean needed so desperately for him to come home. "An' you have to know I would never blame you for what happened."

"If I hadn't come out of my bedroom when I did, would you've come in to see me?" Sam hesitated just long enough to see if John would deny that he hadn't been thinking of leaving home without seeing him. Any small glimmer of hope Sam might have held in his hazel eyes that John didn't think badly of him, shattered and disappear when John remained stoically silent. "Yeah, thought as much . . . go back an' find your damn demon, Dad, it's all you ever really cared about anyway." With that said, Sam slammed the door shut, leaving John to collapse to the ground, a wave of insurmountable guilt washing over him.


	11. Chapter 11

Well, i finally have my computer back, sort of, guh . . . i hate it now!! Anywho, as promised, a new chappy...sorry about the wait and thanks for understanding!! thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews...hopefully the chappy doesn't disappoint. bambers;)

_Chapter Eleven_

Dean parked in the far back corner of the school parking lot, and waited and watched for Coach Driscoll to leave the building. From what he had learned of the coach, Dean knew it would be a while before the older man left the school as he coached wrestling after classes were done for the day, so he settled in for the long haul.

After what seemed the longest time, more cars pulled into the parking lot, and kids about Sam's age began to filter out of the building. Dean sunk down further in his seat as he scanned the crowd, and spotted Driscoll talking to another teacher as they both headed toward the parking area. Completely oblivious of that fact that Dean was studying him, the coach threw back his head and laughed freely, while chatting with a dark-haired woman.

_That sonuvabitch. _Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he fought the urge to jump out of the car and attack the man who had brutally attack Sam. _He's just freakin' actin' like he didn't do anything wrong . . . it doesn't even bother him that he raped an innocent kid._

Driscoll parted company with the woman and veered off to the right, heading toward dark blue four door sedan, parked not too far away from the Impala. He slid behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and then the engine roared to life. The moment the coach pulled out of the parking area, Dean turned the key in the ignition, revved the engine and peeled out onto the road, in pursuit of the coach.

Careful to stay several car lengths behind Driscoll, Dean kept his sights on the sedan, making sure he didn't lose the coach in the rush hour traffic. As Driscoll passed by the pizza parlor he had kidnapped Sam from, Dean noticed how the older man slowed to almost a crawl as he peered inside the windows. Apparently not finding who he was looking for, Driscoll proceeded down the main street with Dean following close behind.

The coach made a left onto a quiet side street, then a right onto Mockingbird Lane, and pulled into the driveway. Dean pulled off to the side of the road, and killed the engine. After a few seconds, Driscoll got out of his car and headed toward a white two-story colonial with black shutters.

Dean glanced around at all the other homes in the area and couldn't help the look of genuine surprise that flitted across his features. For some reason he had expected the coach to live in a rundown dwelling nestled amongst other crumbling shacks, and wasn't prepared for how normal and slightly upscale the houses actually were. Although a few of the homes looked as if they could use a fresh coat of paint, none of them looked as if they falling apart.

As he watched to see if the wrestling coach would leave his home, Dean went over everything Sam had told him about the attack. The sicko had taken him to someplace with painted basement windows, but from his vantage point, Dean couldn't be certain if Driscoll's home was where the assault had occurred. His stomach churned, tears springing to his eyes as he recalled Sam mentioning that pictures of other victims littered the walls. Sam had said that he had heard the coach snapping off pictures of him as well. And that thought alone had Dean slipping out of the Impala, and heading over to Driscoll's home. _I'll be damned if I let that sonuvabitch keep Sammy's pictures as some sort of sick, twisted trophy._

Dean cautiously edged his way around to the back of the house, and as he did, he noted that the dwelling was completely surround on three sides with tall, bushy hedges affording Driscoll the privacy he needed to abuse young boys without prying eyes watching his every move. Dean had also noticed the two car garage, and knew that if the coach had a automatic door opener, he could easily get his victims inside the house without other people being any the wiser.

As he approached the first of the three small basement windows, Dean squat to get a better look, and cursed under his breath when he saw they were painted black just like his little brother had said. Leaning in closer, he cupped his hands over his eyes and tried to peer inside the basement, but the room was too dark to see anything.

_Damn it, I have to get inside there. _He raked his hand through his scruffy hair as he glanced around the yard and the backside of the house. Two large windows flanked either side of the back door, and he counted four more on the second floor of the home. With Driscoll at home, Dean's best option was to somehow shimmy through one of the basement windows and lower himself to the ground below. Settled on his course of action, Dean tried the first of the three windows, but found that it had been painted shut, but the second one slid roughly open after a few minutes of toying with it. Sizing up the narrow opening, Dean then glanced down at his lean frame, and grimaced. _There's no way in hell I'm gonna fit through there. _For a moment or two longer he stared at the opening before abandoning the idea. _If I get stuck in there, there's no way in hell I'm gonna get back out, an' Dad would kick my ass for not listening to him._

Frustration now warred with the need to get Sam's pictures back from the rapist who had cruelly taken them. _There has to be another way . . . I'll just wait till he leaves an' break in. _With that determined, Dean made his way back around to the side of the house, and abruptly had to duck back as he saw Driscoll exiting the front door with his car keys in hand. _Who says Winchester luck is all bad. _

Dean slipped back behind the house, and before he even heard the coach's car engine raor to life, he had already picked the lock on the door and had entered the house. Again, he stood in stunned shocked at how normal the home appeared. Trophies lined the mantle over the fireplace, and hanging above those were pictures of wrestling teams Driscoll had coached. The decor itself was decidedly masculine, the couch and chair both dark brown leather. A large hunting scene hung over the couch with two pictures of deer flanking either side of it. Sports magazines littered the coffee table, and were also stacked on the floor beside a cushioned rocking chair.

Although from outward appearances, Driscoll and his home seemed perfectly normal upon a casual glance, Dean knew better, and the padded lock he spied on the basement door proved he wasn't wrong. He made his way to the door and easily picked the lock, then flung open the door to the dank, musty basement.

Flipping on the light switch, Dean took a deep breath to calm his trembling nerves and headed down into the basement. At the bottom step, he hesitated as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. Hastily covering his hand over his mouth, he fought back the bile rising in his throat as he peered around at the pictures of young boys pasted over every spare inch of wall space.

A double bed with dirty, rumpled sheets sat in the middle of the room with a camera stand situated near the foot of the bed. Rusty colored droplets of blood stained the sheets and pillowcases, but whether it was Sam's blood or someone else's, Dean had no idea.

Averting his eyes from the sight before him, Dean stepped into the damp basement, and began the loathsome task of finding his brother's pictures mingled amongst the others. "Oh God, Sammy," he murmured as studied over all the photos of boys who looked strikingly similar to his little brother. "How could that sonuvabitch do this to you?" Angrily swatting back the tears that blurred his vision, he slowly made his way around the room.

On a low shelf beside the bed, Dean spotted various sex toys, and he lost it completely. The bile that had threatened before, rose swiftly in his throat. With his hand over his mouth, he bolted for the small bathroom at the far corner of the room. Throwing open the toilet lid, he wretched violently. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the cool tile floor as he continued to heave long after there was nothing left in his stomach.

As his stomach finally began to settle, he slid back against the wall and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Tears spilled down his cheeks unchecked as he wrapped his arms around his folded legs. Slowly rocking back and forth, he eyed the outer room, terrified to move from his spot for fear of what else he might find. _God, Sammy . . . I'm so sorry . . . I can't do this._

From his position on the floor, he spied a torn, blood-stained t-shirt sticking out from beneath the bed, and that was all it took for his stomach to begin churning once more. The horrifying image of Sam uselessly struggling to break free from Driscoll played over and over before Dean's eyes as he hurtled himself toward the toilet and threw up again.

On shaky legs, Dean slowly made his way to his feet. Gripping hold of both sides of the sink to steady himself, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Tired eyes, red-rimmed, puffy and lacking any sign of life or warmth stared back into his own. His face was drawn and haggard, several days growth of stubble lining his jaw.

If his ragged appearance was any gage of how well he was handling Sam's assault, Dean would have to say he was nosediving fast into shark infested water with no hope of rescue. Severe lack of sleep was starting to take its toll on him, but whenever he tried to close his eyes, silent fears crept into his heart that if someone attacked his little brother while he was asleep, he would fail to protect him again. Constant guilt tore away at his insides, making it virtually impossible to eat much less keep it down if he did manage to get some food into his system. And then there was the even deeper guilt that came from the moment he was secretly relieved that it hadn't happened to him. That guilt cut deep into his soul, making it even hard to breathe at times.

"This is all my fault, Sammy," he cried, body trembling as he once again sunk to his knees. "If that damn car wasn't actin' up, I would've been there . . . you wouldn't have been alone." Heartbroken sobs racked his body as he lowered his head and fisted his fingers through his hair. "I'm so damn sorry, Sammy . . . how can I ever ask you to forgive me for this?"

For the longest time, he sat there on the bathroom floor, too broken and terrified to move. Every thought of what Sam must have suffered plagued his mind and shattered his battered heart all the more. His eyes stung as seemingly endless tears leaked down his flushed cheeks to soak his t-shirt. He drew his legs even closer to his chest, huddling into a tight ball as he continued to rock back and forth, wishing he could just disappear completely.

_Dean, get up, you have a job to do, _came his father strong and assuring voice, breaking through the darkness that now surrounded Dean. _You're my son. You're soldier, and soldiers stay strong in the face of any conflict. Now get up, an' do what you came here to do._

Dean lifted his head and dried away the tears streaming down his cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. His father was right, he had a job to do. Driscoll needed to suffer for what he had done to Sam, and Dean was hellbent on making him pay for what he had done in the worst possible way. Never before had he ever imagined wanting to take another person's life, but with every fiber of his being he wanted to kill the monster who had brutally raped his brother. And if he were to admit it, if only to himself, that was the reason he had broken into Driscoll's home in the first place.

_Don't worry little brother, when I'm through with that sonuvabitch, you'll never have to worry about him ever again._

Rising to his feet, Dean scoured the entire room yet again, searching through every graphic picture until he found every single photo of Sam that Driscoll had taken. Sickened by the sight of them, Dean hastily stuffed them in his jacket pocket so that he could destroy them later. He then headed back upstairs and closed and locked the door behind him.

Methodically, he worked his way through Driscoll's home, going through all his belongings as if he was on a hunt and was researching his prey. Unlike the basement, the rest of the home yielded no telling information about the monster that dwelled within the walls of the house. But what he had discovered in the cellar belied the normalcy that the coach had tried so hard to achieve. And just because he didn't have smoldering black eyes of a demon or sharpened fangs of vampire, didn't mean he wasn't evil. And it was Dean's job to kill every damn evil sonuvabitch that threatened innocent lives, and as far as he was concerned, Driscoll fit that description to perfection.

He moved to stand beside of one of the upstairs windows, and pulling back the curtain ever-so-slightly so he could see the monster pull back in the driveway, he waited.


	12. Chapter 12

_Once again, I am sorry for the delay on this story. I found this chapter very hard to write as it is all in John's POV so I hope I came even slightly close to capturing how he is feeling at the moment. thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews. They mean everything to me. bambers;)_

_Chapter Twelve_

John found Sam sitting cross-legged on the floor when he entered his sons' bedroom. Sam's head was lowered, and John immediately noticed that his normally shaggy hair had been hacked away in some spots, and he briefly wondered if Driscoll had done it to him or if Sam had done it himself. _God, Sam, I'm so sorry . . . so damn sorry. If I'd only been here this wouldn't have happened._

He swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes as he tried to gather the courage to step beyond the threshold and enter the darkened room. In his lifetime, he'd fought every kind of creature imaginable, and yet nothing had terrified him as much as thought of talking to his son at this moment. _What the hell am I suppose to say to make this okay for him? What the hell am I talking about? There is no okay for this. _

"The damn door was shut for a reason, Dad," Sam uttered, eying John with scarcely concealed anger and something akin to hatred. "So next time either knock first or stay the hell out."

"I don't wanna argue with you, Sam." John took a few steps into the bedroom, but stopped short when Sam pushed himself further into the corner of the room. "I jus' . . . well, I wanted to know how you're doing." Inwardly groaning at how stupid the remark sounded, John tried another approach when Sam glared at him. "I'm not gonna stand here and try to tell you I know how you're feeling at the moment. An' I'm not going to make excuses for myself . . . I should've been here for you. An' I know that just by saying I'm sorry, it doesn't make up for the fact that I was gone and this . . . ." his voice trailed off as he imagined his youngest crying out for help as he was being viciously assaulted, yet all-the-while knowing there was no one there to answer his pleas. Raking a trembling hand through his hair, he continued in a shaky voice, "I know it's too late, an' it doesn't make up for anything, but I'm here now, Sam. I promise I'm not plannin' on going anywhere, so, if you wanna hate me or take out your anger out on me then go ahead."

A look of confusion and utter sadness filled Sam's eyes as he glanced up at John, and the eldest Winchester's heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach. "I jus' wanna be left alone," Sam muttered as he drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. "I jus' want you an' Dean to leave me alone. Can you both just do that for me?"

Hearing the unspoken cry for help in his son's plea, John took another step further into the room. "I can't do that, Sammy."

"Figures." Sam shook his head, casting a look of disgust in John's direction. "Never around when we need you, but the second I ask you to leave, all of the sudden you become the damn father of the year on me."

With a curt nod, John swallowed hard again, and hastily brushed aside the tear that slipped down his right cheek. "Guess I deserved that." He thought to explain why hunting the demon was so important to him, but as he opened his mouth to speak the words died on his lips. He had drilled his reasons for hunting into his sons' heads since they were old enough to understand, and now was definitely not the time to reiterate on the topic. "But even if you hate me for it, Sam, I'm not going anywhere."

"For how long, Dad?" Sam scoffed, maniacal laughter verging on hysteria echoed in John's ears. John realized that he had pushed too hard, too fast, and slowly backed away. "Just what I thought, you've already got one foot back out the door," he added, misinterpreting John's actions. "Just go, Dad, I can't think any worse of you than I already do."

The contempt in his tone struck John worse than if he had sucker punched him in the kidneys. It was there in his son's heartbroken hazel eyes – the blame and seething hatred, and with each passing moment it grew more profound. He couldn't run away from it or explain it away with a token apology. But he couldn't shoulder it either, it was too much to withstand, crushing in its force, dragging him under with tidal velocity.

He wished he hadn't sent Dean out to watch Driscoll. Wished his eldest son was there to . . . to what? To take the responsibility that was rightfully his to endure? To step in and make things right again like he had always done in the past? There was no way in hell he could ask Dean to take on this burden, just as there was no way he could deal with it alone. But if that were the case, then where was the middle ground . . . the even playing field where they could all come together as a family and meet this demon head on?

_Demon. _The word churned through the crushing torrents of his mind, ripping and tearing apart the fragile strands that held his family together. And even if Driscoll was human the word still suited him perfectly. There could be no other name to describe the monster who preyed upon children, luring them in, and violating them in the cruelest possible way imaginable. A demon took what it wanted for its own pleasure – Driscoll was no different – no he was worse. He had been born human. Somewhere along the lines, in his sick, twisted mind he had made a choice. John didn't care what had pushed him to step over the line from having lustful fantasies involving children to acting upon his lurid impulses.

John shook his head, refusing to see him as being human. Driscoll had to be a demon, had to be something he could hunt, because with every fiber of his being he wanted the man dead. His stomach churned with the need, fingers trembling with desire to feel the cold steel of his gun recoil from the round that would end his miserable existence. Although people might search for him, no one would ever find his body. No one would ever know the true extent in which John had tortured him before he finally gave over to his own ruthless need and took the demon's life.

The urge to kill this man far and above surpassed any feeling of revenge he had ever experienced before, and his knees buckled under the weight of his desire. He had never believed himself capable of cold-blooded murder, but it was through a murderer's eyes that he now looked into those of his defenseless son.

"I just wanna make things okay for you again, Sam." His voice sounded rougher than he had intended, and he cringed when he saw his son curl his arms tighter around his legs in response. Slowly he sunk down onto Dean's bed, hoping that if he wasn't towering above Sam he wouldn't appear as menacing to his youngest son. After a moment's hesitation, he carefully slipped off the bed and sat on the floor. It was a small gesture on his part, but he felt as if he were sitting on the same level as Sam, the lines that separated them might fade just a little. And if so, maybe his youngest might not only see him as a hunter but perhaps also as a father who cared and loved him more than anything else in the whole world. "I know I'm probably the last person you want to talk to at the moment, and if you don't wanna that's fine with me." He cautiously fold his legs, pulling them closer to himself so as not to invade the invisible barrier that his son had created around himself. "But if it's alright with you, I thought maybe I could just sit quietly with you until Dean gets home."

"You jus' wanna sit here with me?" Sam's lower lip quivered, confusion warring with mistrust in his wide terrified eyes. "I don't understand. You're not gonna ask me how it happened? How I could have been so stupid? How I could be so blind that I couldn't see through his lies and figured out what he was really after?" Bitterness poured out of him like venom as he spoke, self-loathing punctuating every word. "Aren't you the least bit curious if I somehow provoked him into thinking it would be alright for him to do what he did to me? Maybe I smiled too much or maybe my hair was just a little too long – tell me, Dad, isn't that really why you're here?"

Sam's pale features flushed as he lowered his head, not able to meet John's steady gaze. John cursed under his breath, belatedly realizing that the act of looking into his son's eyes – something he had done ever since his son was a little baby, something that was so natural he had never even given it a passing thought before, would now bring a look of shame to his son's face. He lowered his own head, partially to make Sam more comfortable with his presence and partially to hide the tears stinging at his eyes. He swallowed hard, composing himself, forcing himself to put on his game face. The last thing Sam would want to see him doing was crying for him. Wiping away the mutinous tears slipping down his cheeks, he drew in a shaky breath.

"I've been hunting demons and monsters for a really long time, Sammy," he began in a low, trembling voice. Drawing in another breath, he hid his shaking hands beneath his folded arms as he went on to clarify. "And I've never once stopped to question what the victims of these evil sonsuvbitches might have done to provoke them. Something truly evil will always find justification for its actions – but that doesn't make their twisted reasonings true. I won't let you make this into something you did wrong." Lips pressed into a grim line, he adamantly shook his head. "There's no crime in smiling or choosing to wear your hair however you want to. You didn't do anything wrong, an' I'll keep on telling you that until I've drilled it into your head."

"I must've done something," Sam murmured so low that for a moment John wondered if he had just imagined hearing him. Fingers curling tightly through his hair, he scrunched his eyes closed, and to John it appeared as if he was reliving the nightmare of what had happened to him as he ripped at the strands of hair in his hands. "If I had done something differently . . . if I hadn't been so damn stupid – Why was I so damn stupid?"

John's arms ached to reach out and hold onto Sam, to make him understand that he had done nothing wrong, that people like Driscoll took what they wanted to feel powerful – to dominate their prey. The distance that separated them on the floor was meager, but it might as well have been the length spanning the Grand Canyon as there was no way that Sam would allow him to get close enough to comfort him. Instead, he needed to find the right words to breech the insurmountable gap. "It wasn't you, Sam. You have to believe me, you did nothing wrong."

"How can you even stand to look at me?" Slowly rocking back and forth, Sam curled into a tighter ball. "I'm not like Dean . . . he never would've let this happen to him – I can't be . . . I'm not the son you want. I – I'm not strong enough."

John's heart and soul shattered, listening to his youngest son's heartbroken declaration. The tears he had fought so hard to keep in check broke like a dam, laying siege to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got caught behind the thick knot of pain in his throat.

"An' I can't wash it off," Sam voice rose, once again verging on hysteria as he roughly scrubbed at his arms, leaving trailing bloody scratches on his skin. Instinctively, John reached out to stop his son from hurting himself, but Sam immediately jerked away from his touch. "I've tried an' tried, but the water's not hot enough . . . why can't I get it to come off?"

"Sammy . . . Sam . . . ." John's voice trailed off as he scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping away the moisture that had gathered in his eyes. "You're my son, an' I've always been proud of you . . . you an' your brother are more than I deserve – more than I'd ever hoped to have for myself. No one can change that . . . no one can change that I only live and breathe for you."

"I - I don't know how it happened . . . ." Sam's eyes shifted warily, back and forth across the expanse of his room, searching for something that John couldn't see or fathom. "My brain wasn't working right . . .it didn't work right – you . . . you have to believe me." He suddenly looked up at John, hazel eyes beseeching him to believe that he had in no way provoked the vicious attack from Driscoll. "Please believe me, Dad. I tried to fight him – I really did, but nothing worked right."

"I believe you, Sammy," John uttered in a broken whisper, praying his son would see that he didn't blame or feel repulsed by him. "I – I think you need help." He pinched his eyes closed, hating himself for suggesting that this wasn't something he could handle on his own. Winchesters didn't seek help from outside sources. It went against every ingrained instinct to believe someone else could take care of his sons better than he could take care them himself. But Sam was breaking apart in front of his eyes, and no matter how strong he was – no matter how many monsters he had killed, this was one demon he couldn't take care of without help.

"Y-you wanna send me away?" Desperation and utter defeat filled Sam's voice, tearing away the last shreds of John's heart. "Please don't send me away, Dad . . . I don't wanna go away."

"I'm not gonna send you away, Sam," John quickly assured, mentally kicking himself for terrifying his son and making matters worse. "We're gonna leave here tomorrow," he said as if the decision had been made before he had even stepped foot into the house. "I think we're gonna go and stay with Pastor Jim for a while." He breathed a sigh of relief as the plan slowly took shape in his mind. His long time friend had always been able to reach Sam in a way that John had never been able to no matter how hard he tried.

"No!" Fear and shame filled Sam's eyes, along with fresh tears. "I don't want him to know . . . please, Dad . . . I don't want anyone else to know."

"Don't worry, Sam, you don't have to tell him anything you're not comfortable with sharing," John reassured, although he knew he would have to fill his friend in on what had happened to Sam. "But it's either him or someone else." He purposely failed to mention that someone else meant a psychologist. There was really no need, the look of abject terror on Sam's face clearly stated that he understood who John would take him to see if he choose not to go to Jim's. "I swear it's gonna be okay, Sammy." John lacked the courage to look at his youngest now, feeling every bit the coward for the slight relief he felt that someone else would have to deal with the really hard issues that Sam would have to face and accept before he could move forward. "I promise we'll only stay a short while."

"An' what I want doesn't matter, right?" Sam muttered, resignation and defeat in his tone.

"That's not true, Son." John slowly pushed himself to his feet, resolved to follow through on his plan. "But because I'm your father, I have to weigh what you want against what's best for you. I wish I didn't have to . . . I wish I could be certain that you could get through this with only mine and Dean's help, but I don't think you can. An' I'm not willing to risk your well-being just to prove whether we can get through this without help."

"I hate you!" Sam seethed, clenching his fists together, and John momentarily held very still, praying that he would hit him. Prayed that Sam would strike him over and over again until some of the pain burning inside of him would subside so he could begin to heal. But just like all his wishes and prayers today, this one went unanswered as well.

"You can't even begin to hate me more than I already hate myself," he muttered, then turned his back on his son and with shoulders sagging, trudged out the door.


	13. Chapter 13

_So, this was a really hard chapter to write and I am kinda afraid to post it, but it was the only way the chapter played out in my mind. Rae666 assured me that I was right in how I wrote it, so hopefully no one will want to kill me. thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews. They mean everything to me. bambers;)_

_Chapter Thirteen_

Dean's muscles ached from standing so still, waiting for Driscoll to return home, but he refused to budge from his spot. The room had grown dark, but not so dark that he couldn't see clearly. Pale light filtered into the bedroom through the openings in the curtains, casting eerie shadows across the carpeting.

Behind his back, concealed within the waistband of his jeans, his .45 pressed against his tailbone, a subtle reminder that it was waiting as well. It would be the quickest way to kill the monster who dwelled within the confines of this house, but gunfire would draw unwanted attention from the neighbors, and unwanted attention meant the police.

No, he would kill Driscoll with his bare hands – well, bare hands and his favorite knife. A knife was silent but deadly, and could inflict massive amounts of pain. A maniacal smile flitted across his features as he imagined Driscoll begging for him to stop – just as Sam had begged the twisted monster to leave him alone – he hadn't stopped, hadn't shown mercy – Dean would be even less merciful.

Oddly, he felt detached from the scene around him. Calm, as if he wasn't standing there planning the most brutal murder this town had ever encountered. Of course, no one would ever know the true details. Driscoll would just disappear. Another missing person in a long line of missing persons. But people would know what he had done. The police would make certain of that when they found his secret room. Parents would be notified. Kids who had hid their pain for fear of what people might think of them, would finally feel slightly safer knowing that he was gone.

With those thoughts in mind, Dean sprang into action. He figured he only had a limited amount of time left before the coach returned, and took the opportunity to wipe down any place he might have inadvertently touched while searching through the house. No one would ever find anything to tie him to Driscoll's disappearance. His father had taught him well. Always leave a place as if you had never been there, his Dad had drilled into his head ever since he was old enough to pick a lock.

Maybe the police would find it odd that they wouldn't be able to find even a good set of Driscoll's finger prints in his own home or maybe they would just assume he was an exceptionally cleanly man. Either way, they would breathe a sigh of relief knowing he was gone from their town. They would be thankful that this monster had been stopped. And even if they suspected that he had been murdered, who would care?

For all his assurances that he was doing the right thing – that there was no one on the face of the Earth who deserved to be murdered more than Driscoll, Dean's hands still trembled as he wiped away the last bit of evidence that he had been in the house. _What the hell am I doing? _He pivoted on his heel, taking in the upstairs bedroom. The trembling in his hands now worked its way down to his legs, and he was certain they would have given out on him if he hadn't braced a hand against the wall.

_I'm not a murderer. _For as much as he wanted Driscoll dead, he had been taught to save lives, not take them. It would have to be enough that Driscoll got caught for what he had done to Sam and the others. Although not nearly as satisfying, an anonymous call to the police would be the best way to end his reign of silent terror. With all the evidence the police would gather at the coach's house, he would be sent away for a real long time. Of course, they would never know about Sam. Driscoll would get away with that crime as Dean would never allow the pictures of his little brother to stay in the basement as evidence. If he couldn't kill Driscoll for his brother the least he could do was save him the humiliation of having the pictures on public display at a trial.

_Don't be a coward, Dean. You saw for yourself what he did to Sammy. You're just gonna let that bastard get away with it? _His stomach twisted in knots, another wave of nausea nearly overwhelming him as he recalled the pictures of his brother. Sam deserved better than a weak brother who was too afraid to do what was necessary to protect him.

Dean stared at his shaking fingers, imagining them covered in Driscoll's blood, and collapsed against the wall he had been holding onto for support. "I'm not a murderer," he muttered defeatedly. _I'm sorry, Sammy, I just can't do it. _He had tried to remain mechanical, distancing himself from the act of taking another's life, but that just wasn't who he was. And even if it only brought about a small amount of satisfaction, he breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't a monster like Driscoll.

Pushing away from the wall, he wiped it down, and with head lowered, he slowly turned and trudged to the door. A thin shaft of light streaming in through the window, caught his eye as he was about to exit Driscoll's bedroom, and he swore under his breath as he heard a car pull into the driveway below. Swiftly he moved back to the window, pulled back the curtain, and swore again as he saw the dark blue sedan pull into the garage. In a moment, the monster would come inside, and Dean would be trapped.

For the longest time he stood in hesitation, judging the distance from the window to the ground, wondering if he could make the jump without getting hurt or caught. A wide row of thorny hedges line the house, making it impossible to drop straight down. If he jumped, he would have to leap farther away from the house, making it far more likely that he would get injured. Not that it bothered him to get hurt, he was more than use to injuries by now, but it would slow his escape and make the likelihood of getting caught very probable. He highly doubted the police would take his word about what he had discovered in Driscoll's basement if they were arresting him for breaking and entering into the man's house.

The only option he had left open to him was going back out the way he had come in. But that meant he would have to wait until Driscoll was asleep. At the very best of times, Dean had never been good at waiting, and as his skin was crawling now, he doubted he would last five minutes before he reconsidered the jump again.

_Sonuvabitch. Why the hell didn't I get out of here after I found Sam's pictures? _After several very lengthy minutes, he stealthily slipped out of the bedroom and crept down the hall. The sudden sound of classical music blaring from below, stopped him dead in his tracks. Again, he waited, certain it would be only a matter of moments until Driscoll rounded the corner and he would be caught. The time stretched outward as he ducked backward, and curled up against the wall.

His heart thudded in time with the drums, and his breath caught in his throat as the haunting sound of the cello rose to greet his ears. Clear warning bells rang inside his head, drowning out the music. _What the hell is he doing? It's too late at night to being playing the music so loud. _

He pushed himself back to the opening of the stairwell and crouched low, listening for any sign that Driscoll was heading for the stairs, but the music was too loud, making it impossible to hear anything that was happening on the first floor. It took another long moment for his brain to finally kick into gear, and he realized if he couldn't hear anything on the floor below, he certainly wouldn't be able to hear any noise coming from the basement.

_He parked in the garage. _His stomach flip-flopped as the mental image of his brother trapped below with Driscoll while ominous classical music thrummed away above, ripped away at any other conscious thought. "That sonuvabitch," he hissed under his breath. The scene played stark before his eyes, Sam twisting and squirming to break free, his screams lost to the music, it was more than Dean could endure.

He had always heard that a person saw red when their mind snapped with unadulterated rage, and had always believed it was just a figurative expression, but as a haze of red shrouded his vision, he no longer doubted it. The hairs on his arms and nape of his neck stood on end as an icy chill worked its way down his spine. He wanted to move, but his feet stayed rooted to their spot; fear of what he would find below warring with his need to protect whomever Driscoll had brought home with him.

The front door was right below, he could reach it within a few short seconds. He could be free. The helpless boy below would be someone else's problem. He could call the police, and they would catch Driscoll in the act. But if he stayed, if he saw with his own eyes what had happened to Sam, there would be no way in hell he would leave the coach's house without murdering the monster.

He took a slow, deliberate step down the stairs, toward the doorway. On the second step he hesitated, visions assaulting his mind of another boy, who would look startlingly similar to his little brother, crying for help that he would receive too late for it to matter. _Winchesters don't run away from the bad guys – they do what they have to do to save innocent people. _A single tear slipped down his cheek as he bite at his lower lip to keep from crying out. If he stayed to help the boy, he would be crossing a line he could never come back from – but if he left, everything he was or ever hoped to be would be lost to the darkness of this house. Either choice left him feeling utterly cold and alone. No matter which choice he made, he would no longer be Dean. He would no longer be able to look at anything the same again. He would now being looking at the world through the eyes of either a coward or a murderer, and he couldn't decide which would be more preferable.

His legs felt thick and useless as he took three more steps toward his fate. But as he reached the bottom step, a third choice that he hadn't been able see clearly, as the black and white of the situation shrouded the subtle shade of gray in between, suddenly came to mind. He didn't have to kill anyone. Driscoll would have his back to him as he came down the stairs to the basement. If he could hit him just right, he could knock him unconscious, rescue the boy, and be out of the house before the coach ever knew what hit him. Once outside, he could call the police and tip them off about Driscoll's sick little fetish. No one would ever have to know about Sam. No one would ever have to know how close Dean had come to killing the coach.

With the decision made, Dean let out a breath in relief. He crept through the house, and pulling his gun out of his waistband, he headed down into the basement. His hand flew to cover his mouth as the smell of sweat, whiskey and other things he'd rather not think about assailed his senses. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat, and he had to swallow hard several times to keep himself from throwing up. _Knock him out, get the boy and get the hell out of here. _He repeated over and over again as he came to the final step.

After a quick glance at the shaggy haired boy laying motionless on the bed, he averted his eyes, willing himself not to picture Sam in the same position with the bulky man towering over him. His mind reeled as he heard the click of pictures being taken, and listened to Driscoll's deep throaty laughter. Of their own accord, his eyes flew back to the boy. He wasn't moving. His face was buried in the pillow, and he wasn't moving even in the slightest. Dean narrowed his sights on the young man who was probably no older than Sam, trying to determine if he could see any signs of a rise and fall of his chest, but couldn't detect any.

Driscoll had killed him, and he stood there snapping off pictures and laughing as if taking a life meant nothing to him. Abruptly, Dean recalled the missing boy the wrestling team had told him about. The coach had made of show of searching for the boy, never intending to find him. He had gotten away with it once, and was laughing now because he had no doubt that this time would be no different.

Rage momentarily overtook reason, and Dean charged from the steps, slamming the butt end of his gun down hard on the back of the killer's skull. Dazed, Driscoll weaved around to attack Dean, but wasn't fast enough. Dean smashed the gun against the side of the man's head again. The coach staggered for a moment, reaching out to grab hold of Dean, but on trembling legs, he hastily pushed himself backwards, and the man fell to the ground unmoving.

For a second, Dean stood completely still, dazed as he watched a small trickle of blood ooze from the side of the coach's head. Unblinking, he lifted his gun and aimed it at Driscoll's head. His finger tensed on the trigger. Cold and unfeeling, he stared hard at the unconscious man, judging him. He was a murderer. A rapist. He preyed on children. He deserved to die. No one would blame him. No one would ever have to know.

_I'm not a murderer. _Lowering his weapon,Dean squeezed his eyes close. Tears slipped down his cheeks unchecked as he tucked his gun back into his waist band, then turned and moved to the boy's side. He pressed two fingers to the side of the motionless boy's throat, and heaved a grateful sigh when he detected a faint pulse.

"It's okay, I gotcha," he murmured in a shaky voice, "I'm gonna get you out of here." He grabbed the boy's tattered shirt off the floor with trembling fingers, and with downcast eyes, he hastily redressed him to the best of his ability. "You're gonna be okay," he soothed, although he doubted the shaggy-haired boy could hear him. "I gotcha . . . I gotcha . . . I promise, he's never gonna touch you again."

Dean hooked an arm around the boy's back, and carefully pulled him off the bed. Through bruised and swollen lips, the boy moaned, but his eyelids remained closed. Half-carrying, half-dragging him, Dean stumbled toward the steps. "You're gonna be okay," he repeated over and over again, more to reassure himself that he hadn't hesitated too long and this boy would die because of it than for the unconscious boy's benefit. "I'm gonna get you out of here, and you're gonna be okay."

The stairs were slow going, made all the harder by the dead weight of the boy at his side. Feeling the younger boy slip from his grasp, Dean's arm tightened around him, and heard the him gasp for breath in response. "I'm sorry . . . God, I'm so sorry. I don't wanna hurt ya, I'm just wanna get you out of here."

They had barely made it to the fifth step, when abruptly Dean was ripped backward by his collar. The younger boy tumbled after him, landing on top of him at the bottom of the stairwell. Driscoll towered menacingly over both of them, green eyes wild with anger at being interrupted. Before Dean had a chance to shove the boy off of himself, Driscoll slammed a booted foot into the side of his head. Dazed, Dean fought the darkness closing in around him as Driscoll kicked the boy off of him.

"You broke into my house," Driscoll spat vehemently, kicking Dean in the ribcage. His breath left him in a rush as the coach's foot connected with his ribs a second time. "No one would blame me for killing you." He laughed mirthlessly, slamming his foot into Dean's unprotected stomach, knocking the wind out of him a second time. "Just another burglar caught in the act. Everyone will sleep better at night knowing I took care of you." He gripped hold of Dean's collar, dragged him upward, and pounded a fist into his face.

Dean's head lolled to the side, everything growing darker and darker by the moment. His eyes slowly fluttered open and closed as blood trickled down the side of his face and seeped into his flannel shirt. A shiver of revulsion washed over him as Driscoll trailed an index finger down the length of his jawbone.

"Not my usual type," he commented offhandedly, and laughed all the harder, apparently finding Dean's dazed and confused expression funny. "But I've made exceptions before."

Horrible understanding finally broke through the cloud of darkness threatening to drag Dean under. "N-no," he managed to choke out, and pulling up his right leg, he kicked outward, driving it into Dricoll's knee.

The coach's knee buckled and with a grunt of pain, he fell forward, landing on top of Dean. Dean's head collided with the ground as the man's full weight crushed down upon him. Sparks of bright light, edged in blackness, danced before his eyes. He blinked hard, fighting to stay conscious with every ounce of strength he had left in him. _Don't you dare give up, Dean! You give up an' you might as well not wake up. _

"Oh, you're a fighter," Driscoll murmured in sudden amusement, his hot, whiskey scented breath against Dean's ear. "I was wrong, this'll be more fun than I'd first thought." Without warning, another fist connected with Dean's jaw, his head snapping to the side with the force of the blow.

"I'm n-not gonna let you touch m-me, you sonuvabitch," Dean vowed in a low snarl. Bucking upward and to the side to dislodge the heavy man off his chest, he reached behind his back to yank the gun out of his waistband. But instead of up heaving Driscoll onto the floor as he had intended, the coach controlled the maneuver in such a way, that he crashed back down hard against Dean's already burning ribcage. The gun slipped from his grip, and skittered across the floor, landing beside the shaggy-haired boy.

Driscoll gripped hold of the sides of Dean's face, and dug his fingertips deep into his cheeks. He bent so low that their faces were nearly touching, and trailed his tongue along Dean's lower lip. With his free hand, he reached down and gripped hold of Dean's shirt, and jerking hard, he ripped it apart. Dark blue buttons popped upward in the air and scattered across the cement floor. "That's it. Fight me. It only makes me want you even more."

Another shudder of pure revulsion shot through Dean's body. Consciously, he now fought the urge to just shut down. If Driscoll wanted a fight – if that was what truly turned him on, Dean's mind was unwilling to give him one. _No, Dean,_ it was his father's voice he now heard inside his head, _don't you dare stop fighting. You do whatever you have to do to make sure that sonuvabitch never hurts anyone else. _

Dean's slowly reached downward, toward the knife sheathed at his side, and gripped hold of it in his shaky hand. Drawing on reserves of strength he wasn't even sure he possessed, he abruptly, bucked upward again, this time however he rocked his body forward knocking Driscoll backward. With quicker speed than he would have imagined possible in his present state, he lunged forward, and drove the knife into the man's heart.

"You'll never hurt anyone ever again, you sonuvabitch," Dean growled, watching as Driscoll's green eyes grew wide with fear and confusion. Blood gurgled in the man's throat as a deep rattle resounded in his chest. His body twitched and jerked spasmodically as he struggled to draw in a gasping breath.

Driscoll reached up with a flailing arm, and tried to grip hold of Dean's tattered shirt, but he hastily jerked away. Licking away the blood staining his lips, the coach glared at Dean for a brief moment before a half-smile flitted across his features. "Y-you t-tasted damn good," he rasped, blood spilling out between his teeth. Head drooping to the side, his eyes fluttered closed.

For several minutes, Dean remained unmoving, body trembling so badly he couldn't gather the strength to shove himself away from the dead man. Suddenly, the magnitude of what he had just done struck him with tidal force, cutting through the dense fog clouding his mind. Dropping the knife, he raised his hand, and stared blankly at the blood covering his fingertips. _What did I do . . . oh, God, what the hell did I do?_

"Is . . . is he d-dead?" came a voice behind Dean, and he jumped, startled by the sound. Slowly he turned his head and saw the dark-haired boy standing near the stairs with gun in hand.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak at the moment.

The boy teetered on shaky legs as he traveled the short distance to where Dean was, and dropped down on his knees beside him. Tears shimmered in his grayish-green eyes as he stared at Driscoll. "I – I was gonna kill him . . . I saw him – he was gonna . . . I couldn't let him do that to someone else."

For several very lengthy moments, Dean sat staring at the boy, eyes locked firmly on the deep marbleized bruising trailing across his chest and lower abdomen. "Are you okay?" he uttered in a strangled sounding whisper. A strange buzzing filled his ears, making it hard to keep any one particular thought for more than a second before it was lost to the dizzying pain inside his head, but he struggled to keep focused. He needed to get rid of Driscoll's body. He needed to destroy any evidence that linked him to the man's death. He had to protect Sam and take care of this boy.

But if the boy decided to go to the police there was no way in hell Dean could ever hide his involvement in Driscoll's death. If he did go to the police, Dean's father would find out, and although he would probably not blame him for killing the bastard, he would never forgive him for putting their family name in the daily headlines. It was part of the job to remain anonymous, and with one thoughtless move on his part, Dean had blown any chance that they could ever return to the job without someone recognizing them.

"D-do you need me to take you to the hospital?" he offered, trying to remain distanced and unattached from the onslaught of fears stabbing at his brain.

The boy shook his head, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks unabashedly. "I – I don't want anyone to know . . . I jus' wanna forget – " his strained voice trailed off abruptly as he eyed Driscoll's body again. Panic widened his eyes as he twisted his head from side to side and glanced around at all the graphic pictures hanging on the wall. "Everyone's gonna know," he sobbed in horror and shame, trembling all the harder at the realization.

"No one has to know you were even here," Dean murmured, hating himself for trying to trick the injured and abused boy into keeping quiet about Driscoll's murder. But he could see no other choice. If he went to the hospital – the police, they would find out about Dean's involvement. They would find out about Sam. If the police were smart enough, which Dean had no doubt they were, self-defense would quickly turn into premeditated murder. And even if the boy testified in Dean's defense, the lawyers would argue that he had brought a gun and knife with him to Driscoll's home to prove intent.

"He – he took pictures." The boy's broken-hearted sobs grew louder, tearing away at Dean's heart and weakening his resolve. "Everyone's gonna know . . . my parents . . . my girlfriend – everyone."

"What's your name?" Dean asked, blinking back the blurred shadows edging in around his eyes. _You can pass out later, Dean. You've got work to do._

"J-Jacob . . . Jacob Cleary."

"I'm Steve Tyler," he lied effortlessly. If Jacob agreed to keep this a secret and then later decided he couldn't live with the lie and went to the police, they would have no more information than a false name to go by to search for Dean who would be long gone by that time.

"We could get rid of the pictures, Jacob" Dean offered, cringing at how easily the plan to dispose of Driscoll's body came to mind. "No one even has to know we were here at all. Driscoll could just disappear." He gestured to all the picture's on the wall, and shuddered realizing how close he had come to being another twisted trophy on the man's wall. "If it just seems like he disappeared no one would ever know what happened here tonight – no one would ever have to know what he did to you."

"Disappear?" Jacob raised a brow in confusion. "How?"

Dean's gut clenched painfully, hating himself all the more when he saw the broken look in Jacob's eyes. Jacob only trusted in him because he believed they had gone through similar experiences – he had witnessed what Driscoll had tried to do to him, but did that give Dean the right to use that trust to hide his crime?

"I'll figure out something," Dean rasped, having trouble catching his breath.

"I don't want anyone to know," Jacob uttered, face crumpling in humiliation. "Please make it so no one ever has to know."

"Alright." Dean lowered his head, afraid his guilt would show in his eyes if he happened to look at Jacob now. "Do you know how to drive?" he asked, and lifted his head just enough to see Jacob nod. "I need you to gather up anything here that might belong to you, then I want you to take Driscoll's car and park it somewhere near the airport." He paused to draw in a staggering breath, wincing at the searing pain in his chest. "You'll have to find a place that has no security cameras and leave it there. Then go home, I'll take care of the rest."

For a moment it appeared as if Jacob was about to change his mind, but as he glanced around at all the pictures cluttering the walls again, he swallowed hard and nodded. "What are you gonna do with him?" he shuddered violently as his wary gaze fell to the dead man on the floor.

"I dunno, I'll think of something," Dean answered evasively. Although he had a pretty good idea of where he would hide the coach's body, the less Jacob knew about it the better it would be for everyone concerned. Dean carefully reached out, took the gun from Jacob, and tucked it back in his waistband. "We have to hurry." He stood on shaky legs, grimacing as pain shot through his stomach. Doubling over, he struggled to draw in air and keep himself standing. "Y-You have to go, Jacob," Dean gritted out through clenched teeth as the dark-haired boy tried to keep him from falling back on the ground. "I-I can take care of this."

"Are you sure?" Jacob looked doubtful, pointing toward Dean's face. "You look horrible . . . I could stay – "

"NO!" Dean said more harshly than he had intended, and immediately regretted it when Jacob jerked away from him fearfully. "I'm sorry," he hastily amended. "I can do this myself." There was no way he was going to involve the younger boy more than he already had. "You just drop off the car an' go home."

Jacob gave a curt nod. "Alright." He turned his back on Dean and made a complete search of the room, picking up anything that could even remotely place him at the scene of the crimes. "The pictures," he uttered, turning back fearfully to look at Dean. "What am I supposed to do about them?"

"I'll burn them," Dean assured, in a breathless whisper. "I promise no one will ever see them."

"Thanks, Steve." Relief momentarily flooded Jacob's features, but was quickly overshadowed by doubt and fear. "What if I mess up or get caught driving his car?"

"Stay within the speed limit and make sure to wipe away your fingerprints before you leave the car, and you'll be fine." Another not so subtle twinge of guilt tore at Dean's heart, and he found it all but impossible to meet Jacob's terrified gaze. "I promise you, no one is ever gonna know you were here. I won't let that happen."

"Alright," the younger man said hesitantly, and pivoted on his heel to head upstairs.

Dean waited, listening for the sound of Driscoll's car, but after a few minutes realized he wouldn't be able to hear the engine above the sound of the music drifting down the stairwell. He wouldn't have blamed Jacob if he had chosen to hightail it out there, leaving Dean to take care of everything himself, and made a mental note to check in the garage before he left.

"I'm so damn sorry, Sammy," he muttered, tears stinging at his eyes as he stared at the crumpled sheets on the bed. "I screwed up everything. Why didn't I just do what dad told me to do?" Fighting back the growing pain in his chest and abdomen, he turned and began the arduous task of removing all evidence that a murder had taken place in the basement.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thanks for all the awesome review and continued support for this story. All the kind words mean the world to me. bambers;)_

_Chapter Fourteen_

Dean sat in his Impala for the longest time, staring at the rain streaked window of his house. Even though it was well after four in the morning, the light in the kitchen and living room were still on which meant his father had waited up for him. His grip tightened around the steering wheel as a shadow passed back and forth in front of the curtain. _Damn it, stop shaking, Dean. You did what you had to do. No one will ever find him. _

He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror and almost didn't recognize his own face. Both sides of his jaw were deeply bruised and swollen, dried blood trailing downward from the still seeping gash on the side of his head. It was a jagged cut, fairly deep, and more than likely required stitches, but at least it could be explained away as a wound caused by a beer bottle being smashed over his head. For that matter, he was lucky as all his bruises could be considered the result of a bar fight. His tattered shirt on the other hand could not be so easily explained.

His viciously throbbing head, ribs and abdomen all fought a war for dominance, each one waging a battle to see who could be the first to knock him on his ass before morning. Dean believed it would be a three-way tie, and when they claimed their victory, he would welcome the black hole of nothingness that would steal his memories away even if it was only for the shortest while.

Eyes stinging with unshed tears, he licked his cracked lips, and shuddered with the memory of Driscoll's tongue trailing along the his lower lip. If he hadn't had his knife with him, things would have ended a lot differently. He would have been just like Sam. Was he really so different from Sam now anyway? In very different ways, they were still both lost, alone and terrified.

Brusquely wiping away the moisture beneath his eyes, he glanced in the direction of the house once more before he pushed the car door open and tumbled out onto the ground. Taking several shallow breaths, he managed to grab hold of the door handle and pulled himself to his feet. Staggering on shaky legs, he stumbled twice before he reached the front steps. He hadn't even mounted the first step when the front door swung wide open. His father stood there with arms crossed, face contorted in anger. The look of anger swiftly turned to one of concern as he glanced at Dean's appearance.

"Dean, what the hell happened to you?" Fury lit in his deep brown eyes as he thought about it for a moment and came to his own conclusion. "Driscoll did this to you?" He tried to hook an arm around Dean's waist to help him into the house, but Dean jerked away from his touch. "I'll kill the bastard," he snarled, misinterpreting Dean's reaction. "I'll rip the sonuvabitch apart with my bare hands."

"I-It's not like that, Dad," he stuttered, finding it harder than he imagined it would be to lie to his father. Head spinning, he tumbled into his father's arms. "I – I got in a bar fight . . . an' I th-think I lost."

His eyelids drifted closed, and for the first time all night, he didn't fight to stay conscious. Vaguely, he thought he had heard his father ask him what the hell he was doing at a bar when he was supposed to be watching the coach, but blissful darkness in all her glory, finally held out her welcoming arms to embrace him, and he gladly followed her into the abyss.

"Dean . . . Dean, you have to wake up." Someone shook him gently but firmly, and the warm protection of darkness pulled away from him, leaving him exposed to the unwanted memories of Driscoll's blood covering his hands. "Come on, kiddo, you have to wake up for me."

"J-Jus' lemme go," he slurred, eyelids sluggishly fluttering open. "Don't wanna wake up."

"I can't let you sleep right now, Dean," he said, and as Dean's mind cleared slightly, he realized it was his father speaking. "I'm pretty sure you've got a concussion." He pressed two tablets into Dean's palm, and held out a glass of water.

"I don't want 'em." Throwing the pills onto the floor, Dean struggled to turn onto his side, and abruptly drew in a staggering breath as sharp pain rip through his chest. "Sonuva – " He squeezed his eyes closed as wave after wave of pain washed over him.

"You may have cracked a couple of ribs," John said as he handed Dean two more pills. "I wrapped them for you, but they're gonna be sore for a while."

"I never ask for you're help," Dean snapped, through gasping breaths. He pulled away from his father as he reached out to touch his shoulder, and struggled to sit up. "Wh-where's Sammy?"

His father shifted to look toward the back bedroom, and let out a heavy sigh. "I think he's still sleeping. He looked so worn out last night, I didn't wanna wake him."

Dean followed his father's gaze, and swallowed hard at the thought of having to face his little brother. Sam had always been able to see right through him, and even if his dad believed the lie about the bar fight, Sam probably wouldn't. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Dean." John gripped hold of his arm as he tried to get to his feet. "I told you to watch Driscoll. Why the hell didn't you listen to me?"

"I couldn't find him." Dean tried to yank his arm away, but his father was stronger, and refused to let go.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Dean. An order is an order. You should've looked harder."

"Why bother, Dad, the damage is already done," Dean hissed, cringing at the sound of coldness in his own voice. "A better question would be why the hell weren't you here when Sam needed you. But you don't think that way do you?" His father's hand fell away, and Dean pushed himself into a standing position. "It's always my job to look out for Sammy . . . protect him – make sure he's safe. But I fucked up, Dad. Fucked up so royally there's no going back. So what the hell do you want from me?" He met and held his father's steady gaze. After a moment, he reluctantly lowered his head, fearing that if he looked to deeply he would see the murderer that Dean had become. "You want me to be sorry? Well, you can't even begin to imagine how sorry I am."

"I never blamed you for this." His voice was low, but edged with all the anger and accusation he had been holding back since he had found out about the attack.

"You know what, Dad?" Dean let out a mirthless laugh. "You do it so damn much, you don't even realize it anymore. But that's alright." He hesitated for a moment, swallowing hard against the painful lump in his throat. "I deserve it. I'm nothin' but the fuck up soldier in the Winchester army. So why should this time be any different."

The truth burned on his tongue, the need to confess to Driscoll's murder nearly overwhelming him._ I can't tell them . . . I can't ever let them know what I did. _Teetering precariously, he slowly pivoted on his heel and lumbered toward the bathroom.

Heaving a grateful sigh that his father had removed his ruin shirt while he was unconscious, Dean unwrapped the wide binding from around his ribs. The whole left side of his torso was mottled with deep purplish bruises, the ones on his stomach stretching outward past his navel. He wasn't certain if he had actually cracked any ribs, but it hurt like hell to take even a shallow breath, so he figured his father's assessment was probably accurate.

He ripped off the bandage on his forehead, and lightly pressed his fingers to the wound on the side of his head. Not surprisingly, his Dad had stitched the gash while he was unconscious. Dean wished he had waited. He wished he had allowed him to feel the stinging pain of the needle being pulled through his skin.

His vision swam and blurred as he stared at the splotches of dried blood on his hands.Jacob's wide, terrified grayish-green eyes filled Dean's mind. _Is . . . is he d-dead?_ The younger boy had been holding Dean's gun when he had turned to look at him. He had said that he would have killed Driscoll, but Dean highly doubted that he would have shot the rapist. It was one thing to think about murdering someone, even if they deserved it, but quite another to actually follow through. There was no taking it back, no second chances to do something different.

Dean shuddered, hearing Driscoll's voice clearly in his ears. _Y-you t-tasted damn good. _There was no doubt in his mind that Driscoll deserved to die for all his insidious crimes. But why did he have to be the one to kill the monster? Killing in self-defense was still technically murder. And no matter how justified it might have been, Dean couldn't escape the overpowering need to be punished for what he had done.

He unbutton his jeans, and slipped them down over his narrow hips, allowing them to pool around his feet. Kicking them aside, he stepped into the shower and flipped the water on cold. As icy water blasted over his body, he shivered violently, but refused to add hot water. If he could just feel as cold on the outside as he did on the inside, his mind might shut down and he wouldn't have to remember Driscoll's dead stare. He wouldn't have to recall the putrid scent of flesh burning or the feel of his knife as it plunged deep into the man's chest.

With his teeth chattering loudly in protest of the frigid water, he slipped bonelessly down the wall, and pulled his knees up to his chest. Chilled droplets trailed down from his hair to mingle with warm tears as he remembered a conversation he had once had with his father after his very first hunt and he sobbed brokenly.

"_Why do we always have to move around, Dad?" Dean asked as he helped his dad pack their meager belongings into the trunk of the Impala. "Why can't people just hunt these things themselves?"_

"_Other people don't believe in monsters like we do, Son." John chuckled, ruffling his hand through Dean's hair. "So it's our job to protect them. We save lives, and I think that's important enough to move around for, even if no one ever knows that they might have died if we hadn't been there. Don't you think so?"_

"_Yeah." Dean thought about it for a moment, and frowned, scrunching his eyes in confusion. "That guy we saved . . . he wasn't a good person. He killed that girl an' got away with it. Maybe he didn't deserve to be saved."_

"_Maybe not." His dad scrubbed a hand through his beard as he gave Dean's words some thought for a moment. "But it's not our job to judge who deserves to live and who deserves to die. If we let him die, it would be just like we'd killed him. An' if we did that, how would we be any better than him? For that matter, how would we be any better than the things we hunt?"_

A sudden rap on the bathroom door startled Dean, and his head snapped up, smacked into the back of the shower wall, sending another wave of dizziness crashing over him. He wasn't sure if he had fallen asleep but from the bluish tinge to his skin, he figured he had been in the icy shower for at least ten minutes if not more.

"Dean, are you alright?" His father rapped more impatiently on the door. "Damn it, answer me or I'm gonna bust down this door."

"I-I'mmm, Ok-kay," Dean stuttered, teeth chattering so viciously it made it extremely difficult to sound even remotely normal.

"You don't sound good, are you sure you're alright?" John pressed, more than likely worried about Dean's concussion.

"J-jusss' f-fell asssleep." He groaned, knowing his father would be even more worried now, but how was he supposed to tell him the truth. It wasn't like normal people took ice cold showers after getting their head kicked in by a rapist.

"Maybe I should take you to the hospital, Dean."

"N-No, m'f-fine." Dean winced as he reached over and twisted the knob, turning on the hot water to warm up the shower.

"You're sure?" It was just Dean's luck that his father would choose this moment to become the most concerned parent in the world. "I was gonna go and have Sam withdrawn from school so we could go an' stay with Pastor Jim for a while. But I think maybe I should wait until you're better."

"N-Noo." Taking several shallow breaths, Dean slowly pushed himself to his feet, the task made all the harder due to his muscles locking up from the cold. "I-I w-wanna g-go." He grimaced, knowing that his desire to leave as quickly as possible had more to do with Driscoll's murder than Sam's need to be away from the man who had raped him. Once the news broke that the coach was missing and was also suspected in multiple rapes of minors, Jacob would cave and go to the police with what he knew. Even if he didn't know Dean's real name, he knew what he looked like, and it would only be a matter of time before the police came looking for him. They would find out about Sam, and after that it wouldn't take too much time for them to figure out why Dean had gone to the coach's house with a knife and gun in his possession.

"Dean, we can wait till the weekend to go. You probably shouldn't be driving anyway."

"It's n-not like I haven't d-driven with concussions before, Dad." Dean poured shampoo into his hand and carefully scrubbed it through his hair. "Jus' give me a few minutes, an' I'll be out."

"Alright, but if you still look in rough shape when you come out of there, we're waiting till the weekend," John warned.

Although he hadn't turn the hot on full blast, the warmth of the water slowly drove away the bitter chill from his body, and he was able to move a little faster. As the cold numbness left him, it was replaced by an intense prickling sensation that nearly drove him to his knees. The splotches of Driscoll's blood had already washed away, but he took extra time to scrub his hands over and over again, but still couldn't wipe their image from his mind. Grimacing, he lightly ran the soap over his chest and torso, then proceeded to finish washing the rest of his body. Stepping beneath the spray of water, he rinsed away the soap, and turned off the shower.

Dean ran the towel through his hair, and then wrapped it around his waist. Belatedly, he realized he hadn't thought to get a change of clothes before taking a shower, and cursed under his breath. If Sam was awake, which he had no doubt that he would be by now, he would see all the bruises, and then the questions would begin. He wasn't ready to see Sam just yet or the truth might slip out, but now there was no way around it. _I'll just go in there an' ignore him as much as possible. I won't look at him. Get in, get my clothes, and get back out. _

With the decision made, Dean slipped quietly out of the bathroom, and plodded down the hallway to his room. At the door, he paused and took a shallow breath, wincing as pain shot through his chest. _Get in, get my clothes, and get back out. _He pushed the door open, and quietly entered, praying against the odds he would find Sam still asleep, but as usual Winchester luck was never that good.

Sam was sitting on his bed with a school book propped up on bended knees. The moment he stepped into the room, his little brother's head shot up. Dean hadn't been able to lower his head fast enough and noticed how Sam's hands trembled at the sight of him. Another low curse slipped past his lips as he realized the reason why his brother was shaking. He had been so worried about Sam seeing his bruises, he had failed to think of how terrified he might be to see him wearing only a towel.

"I'm just getting' my clothes, Sammy," he muttered without looking in his direction."I'm just getting them and then I'm leaving." He headed directly to his dresser and hastily grabbed out his clothing. Not trusting himself to speak anymore than he already had, he crossed back to the door, and was almost out of the room when Sam's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he uttered in low, broken tone.

Bracing a hand against the door frame, Dean rested his head on his forearm as he fought back the tears that sprung to his eyes. "You don't have any reason to be sorry, Sammy. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I shouldn't have . . . I don't know why . . . ." Sam's voice trailed off, and an unbearable silence filled the small expanse of their room.

"Don't worry about it. I should've had Dad get my clothes, I just wasn't thinking." He paused for a moment, feeling Sam's intent gaze on him, but refused to look in his direction for fear of what his brother might see in his eyes. "You'd better get packed. Dad wants to leave as soon as he gets back from withdrawing you from school."

"Dean, are you mad at me?"

"Naww . . . why would I be mad at you?" Dean asked, caught off guard by the comment. He had expected his little brother to nag him about all the bruises covering his body. At the very least he would have thought he might mention how horrible his face looked. But apparently, he hadn't even noticed.

"I dunno, you just seem different somehow. An' I thought you might be mad we're moving because of me."

Dean swallowed hard, hearing the sadness in Sam's voice, and instinctively knew he was trying to reach out to him, and it made it all the harder to push him away. But if he gave in to his need to reconnect with Sam, he would inevitably let his secret slip out, and that was just something he could never do. It wouldn't be fair to Sam, and Dean couldn't bear to see him in any more pain.

"I'm jus' tired, Sammy."

"Dad told me you got in a fight, an' I just thought . . . well, if you're mad at me, I just wanted to let you know I understand."

"I told ya I'm not mad." Dean eyed the bathroom door, wishing he'd never exited the safety of the small room, but knew he couldn't hide from his brother forever. "Just get ready to go, Sam," he muttered, and without waiting for his little brother to say another word, made a hasty retreat.

Unfortunately in his need to escape from Sam, he hadn't realized his father was behind him, and slammed directly into him. "Dean, I want to have a word with you," John said, an air of accusation in his tone.

"I have to get dressed," Dean murmured, not able to meet his dad's questioning gaze. Pushing his way around his father, he rushed to the bathroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. Within a moment, John was pounding on the door.

"Dean, open the damn door!" The door rattled as he pounded even harder. "I know damn well you're not telling me something, an' I wanna know what it is right now."

"What more do you need to know, Dad?" Dean spat back bitterly, trembling as he braced the door with all his weight. "You wanted me to watch Driscoll an' I didn't. I got in a fight an' got my ass kicked. Don't think there's anything more to tell."

"You don't disobey orders, Dean. You jus' don't, so tell me what happened."

"There's nothing to tell." The lie slipped from his lips almost effortlessly, but if his father listened close enough, he would have heard the slight telltale tremor. "Sam's the one you need to be worrying about, so can't you just go sign him out of school so we can get the hell outta here?"

After a moment's hesitation, and a very audible sigh, his father conceded. "Alright, but I'm not gonna let this go, Dean. Something's wrong with you, an' I'm damn well gonna find what it is."

"Well, you're gonna be waiting one hell of a long time cause there's nothin' wrong with me," he uttered, and feeling the weight of all he had done crushing down on him, he crumpled to the floor.

"I'll be back in a while," his father said after another lengthy pause. Dean pressed his ear against the door, waiting for his dad to walk away, and heard him heave another weary sigh before he added, "Whatever it is, Dean, you don't have to keep it from me. I can help . . . I know I haven't always been here when you boys needed me, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't do everything in my power to help you."

"I know you would," Dean mumbled in a breathy whisper, too low for his father to hear. "But this is something I have to deal with on my own."

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

By the time John had returned home from withdrawing Sam from school, Dean had thrown all his meager belongings into his duffel, and had packed them in the trunk of the Impala. Luckily he'd somehow managed to steer clear of any real conversation with Sam, ducking in and out of their bedroom every time his brother left for a minute or two. If Sam thought it was strange that he was purposely avoiding him, he never mentioned it, but Dean noticed the wary look on his face the few times he hadn't been able to avoid making eye contact.

The second Dean heard the front door open, he snatched his keys off the counter, and rushed for the door. He knew Sam would want to ride with him instead of their father, but there was no way in hell he could explain the unexpected detour he had to make before heading to Pastor Jim's.

"Dean, where are you going?" John's hand snaked out to grab hold of Dean's arm, but he jerked away and hastily darted around his father.

"I'll meet you at Pastor Jim's," he called out, making a dead run for the Impala.

"Get back here, Dean!" John shouted, racing after him, but Dean flung open the car door, slipped behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, locked it, and had the key in the ignition before he'd made it to the driveway. "Get out of that damn car, now!" His features contorted in anger when Dean revved the engine, threw the car in reverse, and hit the gas, barreling down the short expanse of the gravel driveway.

Through the rearview mirror, Dean watched his dad standing slack-jawed at the edge of the road. Somehow the distance made him look much older, worn beyond belief, and every bit as broken as both of his sons. Maybe he'd always looked this way and Dean had failed to notice it until now or maybe he was really suffering every bit as much as they were.

_I'm sorry, Dad. I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have gone into his house. _Remembering Jacob laying face down on the dirty mattress in Driscoll's basement,Dean's grip tightening around the steering wheel. _But if I didn't go inside, he could've raped Jacob . . . could've killed him. I had no choice – I had to kill him. _"God, why'd I have to kill him?" Dean raked a hand through his hair as he tried to think of another alternative to how things had turned out. _I should've called the police. They would've arrested him, an' he'd be in jail right now. _His stomach churned, head pounding as he thought of the pictures of his brother. _But then they'd know about Sam, an' that would've destroyed him. _

"I had no choice," he muttered brokenly under his breath. Tears blurred his vision, recalling Driscoll's last words, and the terrified look on Jacob's face as he eyed the bloodied knife in Dean's hand. _He's gonna tell someone . . . an' then eventually someone's gonna figure out why we left in such a hurry. _"No one's gonna believe it was self-defense. I had a gun an' a knife with me . . . Jacob saw them. He tells the police that an' they'll never believe I didn't mean to kill him."

Biting at his lower lip, Dean mulled over the chances that anyone would discover Driscoll's remains, and felt fairly certain that if no one found him today, he would be just another person who had disappeared without a trace. He'd been as meticulous as he could possibly manage, but it had been dark out and there was always the chance that he'd missed a spot of singed grass. _I got it all . . . I know I got it all – I buried it with his remains, an' everyone who's there is gonna be too upset to even notice. _

Dean slowed at an intersection at the edge of town, and took a left on Carter Street, followed by an immediate right onto Rochester Street. Old Oak trees lined both sides of the quiet road, and behind them on the right hand side, an ornate iron fence spanned the length of the Oak Haven Cemetery. Passing through the open gates, he maneuvered his way through the narrow, winding road.

Near the back of the graveyard, he spotted ten to fifteen cars parked on the side of the road. Pulling off to the shoulder of the road, he put the car in park, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. For several minutes, he sat and studied the crowd of mourners, searching for any signs that they'd realized they were not only about to bury their loved one, but Driscoll as well.

Dean had taken extra care to dig out several more feet of dirt before he'd placed the coach's body in the grave, and after he'd salted and burned his remains, he'd made certain to scrap away at the sides of the hole. After completing the daunting task, he'd cut away the burnt grass around the grave, tossed it inside, and shoved dirt over it, completely hiding any evidence of Driscoll's remains.

Once they lowered the coffin into the ground and buried it, no one would ever find the coach, and if the police couldn't find him or Dean, they wouldn't be able to prove any allegations Jacob might make about the murder. And eventually, if the police didn't turn up any new leads, Dean was almost certain they would push his murder into some cold case file where it would get buried as well.

His breath caught in his throat as all the people stood, and one by one placed flowers on the casket. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned over the steering wheel, and watched them closely as they filed passed the coffin. His stomach flip-flopped violently as one woman knelt, kissed her hand and pressed it to the polished gray casket. She was so close, too close. It had rained earlier in the morning, but what if the scent of burnt flesh still lingered around the burial ground? She would definitely smell it. She must have smelled it. And if not the sickly aroma of burnt flesh, she'd assuredly detect the pungent scent of gasoline.

Dean's heart beat erratically within his chest, thrumming in his ears, drumming out any other conscious thought except for the knowledge that he was going to get caught. _Damn it, get up – please jus' get up. _

"Why the hell did I think this would work?" he cursed, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "I should've known this wouldn't work."

His trembling hand slipped to the door handle, hoping that if he could somehow create a diversion, the dark-haired woman might be jarred from her imaginings of what the strong aroma of gasoline and putrid burnt flesh might mean. But just as he was about to fling the door open and rush headlong into the crowd, she stood and moved away from the casket.

With heads bowed, they solemnly watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, and then alone or in pairs, they wandered back to their vehicles in silence. Dean sunk lower in his seat as car after car passed by him, heading out of the cemetery.

After all the mourners were gone, he waited and watched as workers arrived to diligently cover the remains of someone's loved one along with the man who had shattered the Winchesters' lives. If any of them believed something was out of place, Dean was not aware of it. Their faces remained impassive as they removed the steel lift used to lower the casket into the ground, rolled up the green, grassy looking matting, and refilled the six-foot deep hole.

Within a relatively short amount of time, they'd finished and piled back into their work vehicles. Alone for the first time since he'd entered the cemetery, Dean got out of his car, and trudged to the freshly buried grave. There was no marker yet to say who the person was, but it really didn't matter. Dean still felt eternally grateful to the man or woman who would forever stand guard over his secret.

Yet, after giving it a moment or two of thought, he wondered and worried if maybe he should stick around, unearth the coffin and burn the remains. What if his secret keeper was pissed off because Dean had defiled his final resting place? He couldn't just leave while knowing that there was a very real possibility that in his need to hide Driscoll's body, he'd created a vengeful spirit.

"Sonuvabitch," he whispered under his breath, realizing that he couldn't leave it to chance. He had to come back after dark and take care of salting and burning the remains. Even in his death, Driscoll was still torturing and tormenting him, and Dean highly doubted that feeling would ever go away.

"God, I hate you," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "With everything that's in me, I hate you." Within his pockets, his hands curled into tight fists as tears stung at his eyes. "An' I'm not sorry that you're dead . . . I'm not. You've ruined so many people's lives, an' you just didn't give a damn how much you hurt anyone, you sick sonuvabitch."

Dean cast a wary glance over his shoulder, fearing that someone might be watching or listening to him, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that he was alone. But even if someone had been watching, he was certain that they would just assume that he was paying his final respects.

Choking on a sob, he swiped away the tears slipping down his cheeks, and returned his attention to the grave. "I'm not gonna let you make me feel guilty because you're dead – I did what I had to do . . . I jus' wish – " Dean's voice abruptly died away as he scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. No matter how relieved he was that Driscoll was dead and could longer harm anyone else, especially Sammy, why did it have to be him who killed him? "I'm gonna help Sammy get beyond this, and no one's ever gonna find you. I'm gonna do everything in my power to make sure things will go back to being like they were before . . . he's gonna go back to school, an' he's gonna have tons of girlfriends – he's gonna have a life, an' you won't be anything but a terrible memory."

Even as Dean spoke the words with utter conviction, his stomach lurched. How was he supposed to make Sam believe that things would eventually get better if he didn't believe it himself? "You'll see, he'll find a beautiful girl . . . she'll be kind an' loving just like my mother was, an' they'll get married . . . an' you won't matter at all."

"You got what you deserved you twisted, sick sonuvabitch," Dean rasped in a harsh voice, bile burning at the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, he pressed his eyes closed, fighting against violent churning of his mutinous stomach. _I'm not gonna let you do this to me . . . I didn't kill you on purpose, an' I'm damn sure not gonna feel guilty about it. _"Sam's gonna be okay . . . you wait an' see – I'm gonna make sure he's okay."

Having spoken his peace, Dean lowered his head and slowly made his way back to his car. He popped the trunk, rummaged through his duffel bag until his fingers curled around the smooth glass bottle he'd been searching for. With hands trembling, he unscrewed the cap and took a long pull on the amber liquid, eyes pinching closed as fiery liquid burned his throat. Now with his mind solely on getting as drunk as humanly possible before he had to return later in the evening to unearth the coffin, he got in the Impala, gunned the engine and tore out of the quiet cemetery.

XxXxXxXxXxX

_afterthought: I may be wrong, but even if Dean killed Driscoll in self-defense, I still believe from his character he would suffer undue amounts of guilt over it...hopefully everyone agrees. I think that is the really great thing about his character, he just feels every emotion so strongly whether it is deserved or not. bambers;)_


	15. Chapter 15

Once again, sorry for the delay I am hoping people understand as it is very hard to write and I want to try and capture the hurt and pain for all the members of the family. thanks for reading and for the really encouraging reviews! bambers;)

_Chapter Fifteen_

One day turned into two then meshed into a third, all slipping by in a drunken haze, and by the time Dean had managed to pulled himself together enough to make the drive to Pastor Jim's house, his father had worked himself into a fine rage. The angry glint in the eldest Winchester's eyes and the firm set of his jaw when Dean stumbled up the porch steps, spoke volumes without him having to utter a word.

Three days and not even the slightest hint of worry in his father's dark eyes, and if his hand on the old wooden railing, barring entrance to their friend's home was any indication, Dean had a feeling his throbbing headache would soon be taking a rapid turn for the worse.

"We're staying at the cottage next door." Without taking his sights off of Dean, his father nudged his head toward the lake front cottage off to the right of Pastor Jim's home. "Or I should say that Sam and I have been staying there, but it's real nice that you've finally decided to show up after not calling to say where you've been all this damn time."

"Remind me to write the Father of the Year committee for you, Dad, I'm sure you're three days of actually sticking around will cinch the award for you." Dean pivoted on his heel, about to head back down the steps, but his father's hand snaked out and grabbed hold of his arm, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

"Care to tell me where you were all this time?" Although it was phrased as a question, as usual his father's words came out sounding more like a command, leaving Dean with little choice but to respond.

For a fleeting moment, Dean met and held his steady gaze, wanting to tell him the truth of what he had done, but couldn't find the right words to make it sound okay that he had murdered Driscoll. "If I said it was none of your damn business, would you let go of my arm so I could go an' get some sleep?"

"Dean, I know how hard this has been for you, but your brother needs you." His grip tightened around Dean's upper arm, fingertips biting into Dean's skin as he tried to shrug free of his father's hold. "So you're gonna pull your shit together right now. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal." Dean met and held his father's intense stare, praying he would see all the pain that was tearing him apart inside, and for once would say the right words to make everything okay again.

"Is that it?" he added when his father remained stonily silent.

"You've been drinking?" His father finally managed, shaking his head in clear disappointment.

"So what if I have?" With lower lip trembling, he shrugged. "Not like I didn't learn from the best."

His dad abruptly jerked his arm away from Dean, fists clenching and unclenching as he struggled to remain outwardly calm. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I've been drinking since I was twelve, and had you shown the slightest bit of interest you might've realized it. But then that would take time away from the one thing you do notice, an' God forbid me or Sam should ever come first over your damn demon."

"You think this is easy for me, Dean?" John angrily jabbed his finger into his chest, and then pointed off toward the horizon. "I'm out there fighting to keep you an' your brother safe. An' you think it's what I wanted? You think every damn day of my life I don't wish things could be different? I wish like all hell that they were . . . but they're not. So I deal with it the best way I can, and I expect you to do the same."

"But you didn't keep Sam safe did you, Dad?" Dean snarled, taking a step forward and coming face to face with his father. "We're here right now cause you didn't do your goddamn job. So don't stand here tellin' me how you're out there fighting the good fight an' saving lives when all I can see is how royally you've fucked up everything that matters."

Eyes narrowing, John's face contorted in unconcealed rage. The muscle in his right cheek jerked as he glared long and hard at Dean. Certain his father was going to haul off and punch him square in the jaw, Dean pressed his eyelids closed and braced himself for impact. His shattered heart and soul prayed for it – begged – needing a release from the constant sharp ache that all the alcohol in the world couldn't quite dull away. But like all his wishes, this one went unanswered as well.

"We're eating at Pastor Jim's tonight, so go get yourself showered up, an' be back here within an hour." Without another word, John spun on his heel and stormed into Pastor Jim's house, the door slamming shut behind him.

Every fiber of his being screamed for Dean to follow his father, and force him into some sort of action. If John could just hit him hard enough maybe he might momentarily forget the shattered look in Sam's eyes or how he shied away from even the slightest of contact. And if his dad kept on hitting him, maybe it would erase the knowledge that Sam had been raped because of him.

Casting a furtive glance in the direction of the cottage, Dean silently cursed under his breath when he noticed Sam standing at the front window, peering out through the partially opened drapes. The very last thing ever wanted to do was hurt his little brother anymore than he was already hurting, and swore again as he realized that he reeked of alcohol.

His father may have left him no choice but to confront Sam, yet it was his own weakness that had condemned him to witness the look of revulsion in his brother's eyes. _Damn it, _w_hy the hell didn't I stop and get showered up before I got here?He's sure as all hell gonna smell the alcohol on me, an' all he's gonna see is Driscoll._

With a deep breath, he gathered himself together, and trudged the relatively short distance to the cottage. His heart hammered hard within his chest as the front door creaked open before he was even halfway up the steps. Sam stood at the entrance expectantly, a faint smile twisting on his lips that quickly faded to a frown as Dean slipped past him.

"Where ya been, Dean?" Sam asked as he followed close behind on Dean's heels. "I was getting worried, I thought maybe . . . I wasn't sure you'd . . . ." His voice trailed off, leaving Dean with little doubt that Sam had thought he'd abandoned him.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say the Impala had broken down, and it had taken him a while to get it repaired, but the words died on his lips recalling how he had failed to show up at Sam's school because he was fixing his car.

"I got lost," Dean called back over his shoulder as he desperately ducked his head into every room, searching for the bathroom to hide himself away in even if it was only for the shortest amount of time.

"You've never gotten lost before." Leave it to Sam not to accept his excuse, and let the matter go. "You always said you were like a human compass . . . is it me, Dean? Am I the reason you stayed away?"

Reaching the end of the hallway, he rake a hand through his hair in frustration as he peered into the last room only to find two single beds. "Where the hell's the bathroom in this place?" Dean grumbled, ignoring his brother's comments.

"There's one near the wash room, and another one upstairs," Sam muttered, backing against the wall as Dean swung around, and stayed glued to his spot until he had passed by, and then followed once more. "Are you mad at me?"

Heart catching in his throat, Dean paused in his steps, and pressed his eyelids closed against the tears forming in them. "Why would I be mad at you?" he somehow managed to utter in a breathless whisper.

"You took off for three days without so much as a goodbye, an' now that you're here you won't even look at me." There was such complete and utter desolation in Sam's tone, Dean was forced to turn and face him, yet couldn't quite bring himself to make eye contact.

"Believe me, it's not you," he said, keeping his sights trained on a stormy lighthouse portrait hanging on the wall on Sam's right-hand side. "I've just got a lot on my mind at the moment."

Sam opened his mouth as if to say something more, but after a few seconds snapped it shut, and lowered his head. Awkward silence fell between them, stretching outward, its viciously snaking tendrils engulfing the spacious living room. It dug deep into Dean's heart, nearly choking off his breath as he searched for a common, safe ground on which to stand with his little brother.

"Look, can we talk later," slowly backing away, he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, "I really need a shower before dinner."

"Sure, whatever." Sam's lower lip quivered, face crumbling in disappointment as Dean turned his back on him to make a hasty retreat into the bathroom. "An' it's alright, Dean, I understand," he called out, stopping Dean dead in his tracks, "Dad won't look at me either . . . just like you, he tries to pretend like he is, but I'm smart enough to know the d-difference." His voice cracked, so full of heartbroken emotion that Dean's heart dislodged from his throat and dropped unceremoniously into the pit of his stomach. "I'm a _Winchester_, an' I damn well I shouldn't have let it happen."

A shiver ran down the length of Dean's spine when he heard Sam say 'Winchester' as if he was no longer worthy of sharing the name with Dean and their father. "Sammy, you're wrong." Dean spun on his heel, but only caught a fleeting glimpse of Sam as he darted into the far back bed room, and closed the door behind him.

Propelled by the need to set things right, Dean took several steps forward before stopping dead in his tracks. He'd only been at the cottage for less than ten minutes, and already managed to get into a fight with his father, and screwed things up royally with Sam.

_What the hell am I gonna say to him? _Staring long and hard at the door Sam had just disappeared behind, Dean tried to think of just the right words to make Sam realize there was nothing that would ever change how he felt about him. Yet no matter how good this thoughts seemed in his head, every time he muttered them to himself they came out sounding weak and contrived. _I'm just gonna keep saying the wrong damn things an' he's gonna end up hating me. He would've been better off if I'd just stayed away._

"It'd be better if I just keep my distance," he muttered under his breath, and with head hung low, he pivoted back around and headed for the bathroom.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Although Dean had vowed to keep his distance from Sam, he couldn't manage to worm his way out of having dinner with his family and Pastor Jim. Through veiled lashes he watched both his father and his brother, and wasn't surprised to find that Sam had been right. John kept his sights trained on his dinner plate, only raising his head now and again to respond to whatever topic of conversation Jim brought up, but as soon as he was finished speaking he would quickly lower his head and resume eating in silence.

As had become his practice, Sam toyed with his food only managing to take a bit here or there to make it appear as if he were actually eating, but from his hollowed cheeks, deep smudges beneath his eyes, and by the way his clothing hung loosely around his shoulders, Dean wasn't the least bit fooled. Sam was in desperate need of some sort of help, and yet they all sat there pretending as if nothing was wrong.

"So," Pastor Jim cleared his throat, dabbing at his bearded face with his napkin as he waited until everyone's attention was on him, "John told me last night that you all would be sticking around until the end of the school year."

Dean snapped his head to the side, staring long and hard at his father, stomach churning at the idea of where the conversation was now leading. They were going to send Sam back to school knowing full-well he wasn't safe there. _How the hell am I suppose to protect him if they send him back to school?_

"He's not going back to any damn school," Dean growled, throwing his fork down on his plate. "What, Dad, you gonna drop him off so you can hit the road again? Just leave him there so the same damn thing can happen again?"

"Dean," John snapped, the hardened edge of his tone instantly drawing everyone's attention to him, "This isn't your decision to make so stay the hell out of it."

"Right, it's yours, just like always, never mind what's best for Sam as long as you're free to fuckin' chase your damn demon." Almost in the instant the words left his mouth, both elder Winchester were on their feet, chairs falling to crash to the floor as they faced off against each other, neither backing down. "You don't have the right to make that decision as you're never there for Sam. You're not the one who protects him from the things you're always off hunting – I am. So don't you stand there telling me I don't have a say in this."

"Dean! John!" Pastor Jim leapt to his feet, and hastily rushed around the table. Gripping a hold of both of their shoulders, he pushed them apart and placed himself between them. Eying each Winchester in turn, he nudged his head toward Sam. "The two of you fighting isn't helping matters, in fact it's only making things worse."

"Stay out of this, Jim," John growled, shrugging free of the pastor's hold on him. "I'm not gonna just stand here and have him say I don't give a rat's ass what happens to Sam. Everything I've ever done is to keep them both safe. And maybe I haven't always done the right thing by them, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't give my life to protect them."

"Protect us from what, Dad?" Dean snarled, pushing Jim's hand away, and once again came to stand toe to toe with his father. "AS you certainly didn't protect Sam from Driscoll – let alone give your life for him."

"Like you can talk." John fisted his hand into Dean's shirt, pulling him closer, "Where were you the last three days, Dean?" His brows furrowed into a scowl. "Because from the best I can tell, you went on a drunkin' bender while your brother sat here waiting for you to come home. And that's not even to mention that you didn't even call to say you were alright, so how the hell do you think that made him feel?"

At that moment, Dean wished his father had just hit him instead, pulverized him to a bloody pulp, certain it would've hurt much less as he turned to look at his little brother only to see him heading toward the door with shoulders slumping and head lowered.

"You win, Dad," Dean muttered, the anger slipping from him as he stared at the empty doorway with tears shimmering in his eyes. "I let Sam get hurt by that son of a bitch, and I took off on him when he needed me. I fucked up so royally, an' I can't fix it no matter what I do." With his head lowered, he turned on his heel and trudged for the door, not certain where he was headed but knowing he needed to get as far away from what was killing him inside as he could possibly manage.


	16. Chapter 16

_Thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews. I feel as if there is a long ways to go yet before some real healing begins for any of the Winchester as I think at this moment all of them are on a serious downward spiral. Bambers;)_

_Chapter Sixteen _

Dean had followed Sam to the church, and waited a short while until he finally worked up the courage to go inside. Unlike his little brother who had always listened to what Pastor Jim had to say with an open mind, Dean had never bought in to the whole higher power talk, and found it almost impossible to drag himself to church every Sunday whenever they stayed with Jim. However, right now he would've given anything to possess even a tenth of the faith Pastor Jim seemed to have as he stood at the back of the church watching his little brother sob his heart out.

More than anything he wanted to go to his brother's side and do something, anything to make things all right. He wanted to see Sam smile again. Wanted to hear him laugh. Wanted all the things Driscoll had taken away from them, but knew in his heart that it was impossible.

It took every bit of sheer courage and willpower he possessed to take a step further into the church, leaving the safety of the entranceway, but after a moment's hesitation he backed away. _Come on, Dean, he's your brother you should be able to talk to him. But what do I even say to him? How do I make him realize that he's pretty much the only person I really care about in this whole fucked up world? _

He shook his head, realizing that his actions over the past three days coupled with how badly both he and their father had behaved at dinner, would ruin any attempt he made to make Sam understand how much he cared. He was about to turn and leave, when he heard the sound of Pastor Jim's voice outside the door. Cursing under his breath, he hastily darted into the coat closet, leaving the door partially open.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Jim stood at the entrance of the church, silently watching the youngest Winchester as he sat in the front pew with his head bowed. Upon first glance it might have appeared as if the younger man was praying, but once Jim's eyes adjusted to the darkly lit room, he narrowed them on Sam and noticed the slight tremble in his shoulders. The soft muffled sound of sobbing met his ears, and his heart clenched painfully.

Even if no one else saw it, Jim noticed the look in Sam's eyes as John and Dean fought about him as if he weren't even in the room, as if he didn't even matter. It wasn't their fault or even their intentions, they were both just so wrapped up in their own grief and guilt to see what their arguing was doing to Sam. They were all in desperate need of help, and Jim could only pray that he was up to the enormous task God had set at his feet.

Taking a few tentative steps forward, he cleared his throat to let Sam know he wasn't alone, and cursed under his breath when the younger man jumped, startled by the sound. "I didn't mean to intrude," he uttered in a soft-spoken manner as he closed the distance between them, "I usually stop by here every night. Sometimes to talk to God, and other times just to be alone with my thoughts," he offered as an excuse for his untimely intrusion.

Briskly rubbing away the tears that streaked his face, Sam leapt to his feet as Jim came to stand beside him. "I-I was just leaving." He glanced toward the front exit as he slowly backed away from Jim, and instinctively knowing that his close proximity unsettled Sam, he also backed away and took a seat in pew on the opposite side of where Sam had been sitting.

"You know I'm here if you wanna talk, Sam," Jim said, and motioned for him to take a seat, "Just like we did when you were younger." From all his extensive training and personal experience, he knew it was important to give Sam the option to say no, and be willing to accept it if he wasn't ready to open up about what had happened to him. "We can talk about anything you want to talk about." He shrugged, wanting Sam to know he didn't care what topic they discussed, hoping that he would understand that no matter what he had to say, Jim would listen without forcing him to divulge things he wasn't ready to share. "It's completely up to you."

Shuffling his feet, Sam stared longingly at the door, fear registering in his eyes at the apparent thought of being trapped alone with someone who might at any moment attack him. The fear was reasonable, Jim assured himself, after all, Sam had trusted his Coach and the sick bastard had taken advantage of the situation. "You don't have to stay, Sam," Jim assured with a shake of his head. "You're free to leave any time you wanna go."

Sam eyed the entranceway a moment longer, and then slowly, cautiously took a seat, but from his tense posture and wary expression, Jim understood he would bolt the second he felt he was in any sort of danger. "So what would you like to talk about?" Jim asked as he settled into his seat, making it very apparent that he had no intention of moving any closer to Sam.

For several very long moments, Sam remained stonily silent as he stared at the wooden cross on the altar, then his gaze flitted over the statues of the Archangels Michael and Gabriel before he lowered his head. "Do you really believe in God?" he finally asked, tilting his head to look at Jim for a moment, waited to see him nod, then retrained his sights on his clasp hands. "I'm mean, I know you're suppose to what with being a pastor and all, but why? It's not like He's making His presence known for everyone to see or anything. This world's all screwed to hell, an' you seriously expect me to believe He's just sittin' this one out on the sidelines or something?"

Jim hesitated, trying to think of the best way to describe his faith without sounding as if he was judging Sam for his doubts. But in truth it was very hard to describe something so intangible as faith to someone like Sam who's whole world was crumbling down around him. "I know there's evil in the world, Sam, I'm witness to it every time I open my front door or look at the evening news, and sometimes that overshadows all the really good things in life, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. Sometimes you just have to look harder for the true miracles as God isn't as flashy as some damn demon – He doesn't have to be, and that's the point."

"If there really is a God out there somewhere supposedly watching over us, why doesn't He even give a damn that he's losing the war?" Sam uttered without a moment's hesitation, the bitterness in his tone undeniable. Right now Sam needed someone or something to blame, and from Jim's experience it was very common for those who were suffering to lash out at God, question his existence, and there was no doubt in Jim's mind that Sam had more reason than most to be angry. "An' it's not just the demons or monsters," he shook his head adamantly , "but people . . . screwed up, fucked all to hell people who'd rather hurt others than try to do what's right."

Jim leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his thighs as he looked to the cross, searching for answers to explain to Sam how having free will sometimes came with a decidedly wicked and evil side, and how not everyone chose to take the right path when desire overwhelmed them. "You're right, Sam, there's a helluva lot of evil people out there – those who don't care about others, who are only out there to get what they want no matter who they hurt . . . ." Jim's voiced trailed off, noticing Sam press his eyes closed and flinch as if recalling a horribly painful memory of the sexual assault he had endured. "But there are good people, too, people like you and your family," he added, drawing back from leading the conversation toward Driscoll.

"No," Sam shook his head again as he pushed away from his seat and strode up the stone steps of the altar and came to stand beside a row of lit candles. "There aren't any good people out there – not Dad or Dean and especially not me." With his back to Jim, he slowly waved his hand back and forth over the flames. "You saw them tonight, you saw how they are – both looking to blame each other – ready to come to blows and it's all my fault. My fault. My family's falling apart because of me, and I can't even find it in myself to give a damn."

"Sam, this isn't your fault." For a moment, Jim thought to get to his feet and go to Sam, but then decided better against it. He was slowly making a little headway, but there was a very long road ahead and he couldn't afford to shake Sam's trust in him at this point. "And believe me, your father and brother are just trying their best to look after and protect you – granted, they're not going about it the right way, but they definitely don't blame you for anything."

"You see, the thing is that if I say it's my fault then it is." Seemingly memorized by the flickering flames, Sam held his hand over one candle for several very long moments before slowly pulling it away. "They wouldn't be at each other's throats if it wasn't for me. An' with me around they'll both end up hating each other, then they'll hate me even more for ruining everything."

Sam moved on to the next candle, holding his hand even lower over the flame, and for as much as Jim didn't want to overstep the boundaries Sam had established, he couldn't stand by and watch the younger man hurt himself. "Sam, I think we should probably blow out the candles for the night," he said as he got to his feet and cautiously made his way toward the troubled teen.

Sam raised his hand, staring at his red, blistering fingertips for a several seconds before he balled hand into a fist and backed away from Jim. "I – I'm sorry, I shouldn't have . . . I should go before my Dad comes looking for me."

"It's alright, Sam," Jim assured, although he knew the younger man was anything but all right. He was so close to the edge, Jim wasn't certain he could pull him back before it was too late. "We can talk again, anytime you feel like it."

"Sure," Sam muttered, but from the flat lifeless tone of his voice, Jim seriously doubted he would search him out on his own, and made a mental note to keep tabs on him. If he wasn't willing to help himself, he really needed someone to give him a push in the right direction before he broke down completely.

"And I just wanted you to know that whatever you say to me goes no further," he raised his eyes as he pointed his index finger toward the heavens, "it's a part of my oath. So you can speak freely about anything that's bothering you even if it's about your Dad or Dean, and it'll just be between us."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sam uttered, then turned on his heel, trudged to the entrance of the church and headed outside.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dean remained inside the small, cramped closet long after Pastor Jim had left for the night. Tears spilled down his cheeks unchecked as his mind replayed all that Sam had said over and over again. No matter how he worked it out in his mind, it always came back to Sam being in pain because of him, yet his little brother blamed himself for everything. But within his brother's guilt, he also heard the anger directed at him. Heard it in the way he said his name as if he couldn't stomach the sound of it as it rolled off his tongue.

_What the hell am I suppose to do? Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. _He glanced heavenward, waiting for some sort of answer, but instead his silent plea was met with profound silence. "Yeah, that figures," he muttered to himself as he pushed himself to his feet, flung open the closet door, and headed out of the church.

For the briefest of seconds he thought to return to the cottage, but couldn't bring himself to face his father or Sam at the moment. Not knowing where else to go, he began walking, listening to the sound of his footfalls against the pavement, praying they would drowned out the sound of Sam's voice inside his head.

Without really knowing where he was headed, he made his way through town, and stopped short outside of a park with the gates closed to the public. Although it was nearly dark, he could still make out the shadows of several people sitting on picnic tables inside, and leapt over the fence, figuring if they were allowed in after closing hours then who was to keep him out.

As he drew closer to them he could hear their laughter, and smelled the very distinctive aroma of marijuana. He breathed in deeply as he strode past them, hoping for a contact high, but not expecting to get that lucky.

"Hey, Kid," came a deep voice, followed by a round of laughter from the others at the picnic table. "What are you doin' in our park?"

"Didn't actually know you owned the park," Dean replied, holding back on saying anything insulting for the moment. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure that gate will keep the rest of society from storming in here."

"Huh, you're probably right about that." The taller man, who looked to be about the same age as Dean, came to stand toe to toe with him, and looked him over as if sizing him up before he broke into another fit of laughter. "My friends call me Chaser."

"And what does the rest of the world call you?" Dean couldn't help but ask, hearing how self-important the dark-haired man sounded.

"You and that younger kid are the ones staying with the pastor, aren't you?" Chaser asked, ignoring Dean's comment. "Nice car by the way." He smiled in obvious appreciation of the Impala. "I saw you pullin' into his driveway earlier."

"I don't really see where that's any of your business." Out of ingrained habit, he mentally prepared a cover story as to why they had moved to town in the middle of the school year in case Chaser pressed for details, and settled on a plausible reason if the need to further explain arose.

"Fair enough." Chaser shrugged, unconcernedly. No prying for information. No outward show of anger that Dean had purposely evaded the question. He didn't care. It was as simple as that. "You wanna join our lil' party, ahh . . . ." He looked to Dean waiting for him to tell him his name.

He opened his mouth to say Dean, but changed his mind, wanting desperately to be someone else – anyone else, even if it was only for the night. "Hunter," he replied, figuring the name described him as well if not better than his own real name.

"Hunter?" The scruffy-haired man appraised him as if trying to decide if he believed him and then gave a curt nod. "So, _Hunter_," he stressed the fake name, making it abundantly clear that he didn't buy the lie even for a second, "What'd ya say?" he asked, held out a joint to Dean and waited to see if he would accept his offer.

Dean hesitated, sensing the challenge behind the seemingly innocent invitation, but as he eyed the joint he decided it was just what he needed. He could lose himself for a short while, forget everything and everyone and just relax. "Sure why not."


	17. Chapter 17

_Thanks for sticking with this story and for all the awesome reviews!! Thay make it all so worth while. Bambers;)_

_Chapter Seventeen_

By his third hit, Dean realized that there was more than just marijuana in the joint Chaser had given him, but at that point he couldn't have cared less. The tension in his shoulders and back slipped away as did everything else, leaving him feeling blissfully euphoric.

"Here, dude, ya want some?" With a lazy grin he offered the joint to Chaser, but the scruffy-haired teen shook his head, and instead took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up.

"Bein' that it's my party an' all, I figure someone's gotta keep a level head." Taking a long drag off the cigarette, he blew the smoke in Dean's face, then flicked the ashes on the ground. "Besides, what with you bein' the new guy in town, I'm hopin' we'll become real good friends. So what kind of friend would I be if I didn't make sure you made it home alright?"

Something about the way Chaser spoke, nudged at the far back corner of Dean's mind, but he chose to ignore it and join in with the rest of the teens, getting stoned off his ass while Chaser sat on the top of the picnic table and kept watch for police.

All around him, Dean heard the other teens talking incessantly and laughing, and found himself laughing along with them even though he couldn't understand most of what they were talking about.

"So yer really stayin' with the pastor?" a lanky, spiky-haired teen asked as everyone's laughter died away, and when Dean nodded, he went on to add, "then maybe ya can get him ta mind his own business, stop messin' in things that don't concern him."

"Rooster," Chaser called out, and gave a curt shake of his head, "Keep yer trap shut." He gave the younger teen a look of warning that wasn't lost on Dean, and then continued, "Rooster just doesn't wanna be converted by any of the holy rollers in town, you understand . . . all the talk of havin' a good time bein' a sin, I'm sure he means well, but it get kinda old kinda fast."

"Yeah, I get that, but like you said he means well." Dean rolled his eyes at his own comment, wanting to defend Pastor Jim, yet at the same time understanding exactly how they felt.

"Jus' forget him," a slim, dark-haired kid that everyone referred to as Roca said, clapping Dean on the back, "preacher man don't know nothin' about havin' fun, an' neither does yer old man, so ya should stick with us."

"Ya know what we should do, Chaser?" Rooster jumped into the conversation before Dean had a chance to speak, and for some reason to Dean it felt almost as if it had been rehearsed. "Dodge."

"Not sure Hunter would be up for it." Chaser looked to Dean for a moment as if once again sizing him up, and shook his head as if he found him to be seriously lacking. "Naw, you wouldn't wanna play, would you, Hunter?"

"Depends on what Dodge is," Dean replied, not about to commit to anything without first knowing what he was getting himself into.

"See, that's the kind of answer that says you're too chicken shit to live a little bit," Chaser countered smoothly, and from behind Dean heard all the teen's friends snickering. "You should probably go home to daddy an' preacher man, do whatever the hell they tell ya, an' be a good lil' boy."

"Told ya he was chicken shit," another overly-thin kid, whom everyone referred to as Bones, murmured from behind Dean, "You owe me a fiver, Primo . . . fuck that, jus' give over some of that space dust ya got in yer pocket an' we'll call it even."

"I didn't say I wouldn't play," Dean spoke up, then took another hit off his joint as he had a feeling he was gonna need it. "So what are the rules?"

"No real rules, Hunter," Chaser chuckled, "It's kinda like dodge ball, except instead of a ball we throw knives . . . dodge 'em all, ya win. Get hit," he shrugged unconcernedly, "you might spend a little time in the ER. No biggie. So what da ya say? You still wanna play?"

"Sure," Dean said after a momentary pause, not certain whether his training as a hunter or the euphoric high he was feeling at the moment, made him feel as if he could do just about anything without getting hurt. "An' after I'm done, it's your turn right?"

"Definitely."

"So if I'm suppose to be dodging these knives, I'm guessin' there's some sort of starting and ending point, just tell me where I gotta go, an' we'll see who's chicken shit an' who knows how to throw a knife."

"You're cocky, Hunter, I like that." Chaser grinned as he pointed the butt end of his cigarette toward a line of trees at the far end of the park. "That's the starting point over there," then swept his hand back to gesture to the spot where they were standing, "an' ya gotta make it to here without getting hit . . . or ya have to start over."

Although Dean had a feeling Chaser made up the last rule on the spot, he nodded nonetheless. "Gotcha." Throwing the joint to the ground, he ground it out with the toe of his boot, then without another word, sprinted to the location the teen had indicated.

As he waited for any indication that he should start running, he narrowed his eyes and used the dim light coming from both the moon and the park lights to locate where each of Chaser's friends were situated.

"Run!" Dean had barely heard the word when all Chaser's friends rushed toward him from all different directions. He took off at a shot, purposely weaving as to make himself a harder target to pin down, and abruptly came to a dead stop as a blade came dangerously close to striking him in the head.

Not getting a chance to catch his breath, Dean set off again, dodging around trees and shrubs as they closed in all around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of light, and threw himself to the ground as another blade narrowly missed him. Scrambling to his feet, he raced toward Chaser and the finish line, ducking and arching his body as several more knives whizzed past him. Out of breath, he came to a halt in front of Chaser and the finish line, and taking a deep breath, he grinned cockily at the scruffy-haired teen.

"Guess I win," he uttered through panted breaths.

"Naw, I don't think so," Chaser shook his head, and before Dean realized what was happening, the teen whipped out a knife of his own and sliced through Dean's arm. "You didn't cross the finish line, I gotcha – you lose. Which means by the rules that you agreed to, you have to start all over again."

"You're kidding me, right?" he growled, clutching a hand around the deep gash on his upper arm. "I did exactly what you said, nearly took a blade to my fuckin' head, an' now yer tellin' me I have to start all over again?"

Chaser threw back his head and laughed at Dean's outburst, and as his laughter died away he uttered, "You always do what everyone tells you to do, _Dean_?" As Dean's eyes widened upon hearing his own name, the teen laughed all the harder. "You think I don't remember you, Dean? It's not like it's the first time you've blown through town . . . what, yer dad hoppin' on the wagon again, finding religion with the preacher man all in his face talkin' redemption? There ain't no redemption, dude . . . ain't no sin," he shook his head, "sooner you learn that the sooner yer free of all their bullshit."

"You're an asshole." Dean shook his head in disgust, furious with himself for allowing himself to be talked into their stupid little game.

"Maybe." Chaser smirked as he raised the blade, and sliced deep into his arm, letting out a low hiss as blood dripped to splatter on the ground. "But you bleed for me, Dean – I bleed for you." He gripped hold of Dean's hand yanked him forward, and smeared his blood into Dean's. "That's my promise to you – an' your oath to me."

"You know what you can do with your damn promise," Dean snarled as he turned on his heel and stormed away.

"You'll be back, Dean," Chaser called out to him, "soon as you realize what I'm sellin' is real, and not some crapped up version of reality yer daddy an' the preacher man are pushin' on ya."

XxXxXxXxXxX

Outside the cottage, Dean tore off a wide strip of his t-shirt, and wrapped it around his arm to staunch the flow of blood, cursing under his breath at the thought of having to stitch up the wound on his own as couldn't very well tell his father or Sam how he'd gotten injured. He pulled open the screen door, cursing under his breath as it creaked loudly as it scratched along the wooden porch. Luckily, his father wasn't anywhere to be found, but unfortunately that same luck didn't seem to apply to Sam. His little brother stepped from the shadows of the hallway as soon as Dean was fully in the house, allowing him no alternative but to stay rooted to his spot.

"Dean, where were you?" Sam questioned, eying him suspiciously, no doubt noting the aromatic scent of marijuana that more than likely clung to his clothing. "Dad was looking for you earlier," he took a step further into the room, "an' I was jus' . . . I thought maybe we could - " His voice abruptly trailed off as he looked Dean in the eyes, his own narrowing slightly in accusation. "You know what, jus' forget it."

"It's not what you think, Sammy," Dean argued, although he knew it was exactly what his brother was thinking. He was running away from everything and anything that had to do with his family, Driscoll's murder, Sam's assault, and the unbearable guilt for not having been there to stop it from happening. "It's just I don't think Dad should be pushing you to go back to school," he muttered the partial truth, feeling even more guilty as he saw the look of broken sadness in his brother's shimmering, hazel eyes. "He wasn't there, he doesn't know how hard it was on you – so he shouldn't have the right to decide what's best for you."

"An' you should?"

"I didn't say that." Dean shook his head, although he believed he had more right than their father to make decisions where Sam was concerned. "But I was there, Sammy, not him . . . he's never been there. I'm the one who drove you to school all those days, and saw how much it killed you inside that you couldn't bring yourself to get out of the car – so yeah, I do think I have more rights where you're concerned than he does."

"But what if I agree with Dad?" Sam uttered, purposely keeping his head lowered so Dean couldn't be certain if it was a hypothetical question or if Sam really did want to go back to school. "Do I have any say in this or does what I want not even matter to you at all?"

"What do you want me to say here, Sam?" Dean flung his arms out to the sides, at a loss as to what his little brother wanted from him. "You want me to tell you I'm thrilled with the idea of you going back to school." With a deep-set scowl forming on his features, he shook his head. "Well, I'm not that good of a liar, but hey, if that's what you really want then knock yourself out."

"Fine, I will."

Dean's stomach flip-flopped as Sam's tone filled with more determination than he had heard since his assault, and within his heart he knew he wasn't the cause of it. "Well, for your sake I hope Dad's gonna be there waiting for you when you can't make it through the door because I won't do it again." Pursing his lips, Dean shook his head. "I won't jus' stand there and watch you go through that pain and humiliation again. I can't do it again . . . I just can't."

With tears slipping down his cheeks, Sam stood silent for several very long moments, then uttered in a voice merely above a whisper, "Then why don't you just go back to wherever it was you were tonight an' get stoned off your ass again so you don't remember I'm your brother – an' I'll jus' go on pretending like you aren't disgusted by the sight of me."


End file.
